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DEMOCRACY 


DEMOCRACY 


BY 

SHAW   DESMOND 

1! 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  bt 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published.  May.  1919 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  The  Red  Seed 1 

II.  Taking  Up  the  Gauntlet  .     .     .     ,     18 

III.  The  Chillington  House  Reunion     .     27 

IV.  Trafalgar  Square .48 

V.  On  the  Waters  of  Fleet  Street  .     .     72 

VI.  Manicured  Revolution 85 

VII.  The  Right  to  Get  Drunk  ....  104 

VIII.  Masters  and  Men 115 

IX.  Iron  and  Velvet 140 

X.  The  Parliament  of  Labour     .     .     .159 

XI.  The  Right  to  Live 182 

XII.  The  Age  of  Nerves  .     .     .     .     .     .187 

XIII.  The  Big  Drum 196 

XIV.  The  Divine  Right .216 

XV.  "Paddy  Mac" 233 

XVI.  The  Grand  International  ....  243 

XVII.  The  Appeal  to  Force 250 

XVIII.  The  Green-Eyed  Girl 257 

V 


8569- 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  The  City  that  Rose  in  the  Night  .  265 

XX.  Power 271 

XXI.  Damascene's  Last  Appearance  on  any 

Stage 279 

XXII.  The  Blinded  Giant 285 

XXIII.  The  Big  Stick 303 

XXIV.  The  Bursting  of  the  Bubble  .     .     .312 
XXV.  Demos ,     .  319 


DEMOCRACY 


DEMOCRACY 


THE   RED   SEED 

"That,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  take  to  be  our  reply- 
to  Socialist  insolence.  They  have  thrown  down  the 
red  gauntlet  to  organised  society  .  .  .  we,  have 
taken  it  up/' 

The  words  came  in  florid  periods,  which  rolled 
fluently  from  the  loose-lipped  mouth  of  the  speaker. 
The  good-humoured  face,  with  the  jaw  of  an  East- 
End  coster;  short,  pugnacious  nose;  the  shrewd,  lu- 
minous-grey eyes,  which  flickered  athwart  the  packed 
rows  like  summer  lightning;  the  burly  frankness  of 
the  giant  of  a  man  in  his  loosely-caught  frock  coat — 
all  went  to  make  up  the  genial  Buster  Bull,  financier, 
newspaper  proprietor,  sportsman,  and  People's  Cham- 
pion. 

Denis  Destin  had  seen  him  a  score  of  times  in  the 
same  Magog  hall,  dominating  crowds  of  frightened, 
angry  shareholders  even  as  now  he  dominated  the 
mass  of  city  men,  clerks,  little  tradesmen,  and  strug- 
gling professional  men,  ranged  before  him,  hanging 
on  each  period.  From  where  he  sat  near  the  plat- 
form, he  caught  the  whitey-pallor  and  staring  eye- 
balls of  the  faces  that  resurrected  themselves  at  the 
trumpet  blast  of  the  chairman,  feeling  that  the  Judg- 
ment had  come,  their  minds  tense  with  battle. 

I 


2  DEMOCRACY 

It  was  after  the  General  Election.  Democracy, 
insistent,  blatant,  had  asserted  itself  at  the  polls, 
labour  sat  b:  .^orce  in  sacred  Westminster.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  the  end. 

DesJ;in  sensed  in  the  faces  before  him  what  was 
called  at  the  time  "the  Bitter  Cry  of  the  Middle 
Classes."  Here,  in  the  front,  gnawing  his  nails, 
crouched  a  stock-broker,  flirting  daily  with  bank- 
ruptcy upon  a  couple  of  thousand  a  year,  strained  on 
the  rack  of  an  iniquitous  tax.  Cheek  by  jowl  with 
him  sat  a  little,  stolid,  ready-made-suited  oilman,  his 
heart  aflame  with  the  wrongs  of  a  time  where  the 
oilman  had  to  sell  to  a  voracious  public  everything 
from  strawberry  jam  to  firewood  in  order  to  snatch 
a  living  from  the  wolves  of  .the  Chancellor.  Twenty 
yards  away,  a  City  doctor,  sprucely  dressed  in  morn- 
ing coat  and  "wing"  collaf,  pondered  the  exorbitant 
rent  of  his  city  consulting  rooms  and  nursed  ven- 
geance-on  the  despoiler.  Row  upon  row  of  city  clerks 
•^pale-faced,  hard-working,  and  groomed  to  the  last 
frayed  thread  of  their  .shirt  cuffs — thirty-shilling  and 
two  pound  a  week  men — who,  with  their  wives  and 
little  ones,  hid  their  poverty  behind  the  stuccoes  of 
Finsbury  Park  or  Forest  Gate,  felt  the  acid  of  fright- 
ened hate  work  its  way  in  their  pinched  faces  and 
bodies  as  they  saw,  standing  out  in  concrete  form  be- 
fore them,  implacable  Demos,  corduroyed,  hob-booted, 
reeking  of  sweat  and  envy. 

Destin,  himself  one  of  the  black-coated  brigade, 
looked  on  in  strange  detachment.  Indeed,  as  he  hung 
there  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  scanning  the  faces 
behind  and  around  him,  he  seemed,  despite  his  dark 
grey,  precise  clothes,  identical  with  a  hundred  others, 
a  curious  incursion,  with  his  strong  nose,  jutting  from 


THE  RED  SEED  3 

the  heavily-boned  brows,  the  square,  rather  small  jaw, 
and  great,  loose  shoulders. 

Those  were  the  men  by  whose  side  he  worked  day 
by  day.  He  knew,  none  better,  the  dead  grind  of 
their  lives,  their  little  hopes  and  fears,  but  he  felt  him- 
self cut  off  from  them  as  effectively  as  though  he 
lived  on  Saturn.  More  than  that,  he  hated  them — 
hated  them  with  a  blind,  tense  hate  which  often  puz- 
zled him — ^hated  them,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  the 
concrete  manifestation  of  something  behind  them. 
Even  as  he  looked,  his  hazel  eyes  greened  as  they 
narrowed — his  rather  sensuous  mouth  hung  loosely 
open,  the  slaver  of  invisible  froth  running  from  it. 

Destin,  in  the  slang  of  the  city,  was  "a  queer  fel- 
low*'— that  epitaph  of  the  middle  classes,  which  puts 
a  man  outside  the  pale  of  Jungle  Freedom  in  the  City 
of  Averages. 

He  swung  round  to  the  platform  again,  with  its 
phalanx  of  respectable  citizens,  frock-coated  and 
striped  in  the  lower  extremities  with  the  insignia  of 
success. 

The  new  voice  came  to  him  thinly  from  the  spare 
figure  which  ran  up  above  him — sl  figure  which,  with 
its  hollow  asceticism  and  doleful  moustaches,  almost 
brushing  either  shoulder,  was  that  of  Don  Quixote 
reincarnate. 

That  was  Brink,  the  Lombard  Street  banker,  whom 
Destin  remembered  very  well  indeed.  The  last  time 
he  had  seen  him  was  in  the  same  hall,  upon  the  Torrey- 
Alexander  revivalist  platform,  when  those  two  modern 
evangelists  were,  in  their  own  language,  picturesque 
and  unrestrained  as  the  country  that  gave  them  birth, 
"raising  hell"  in  the  City.  Then,  he  had  sung  the 
"Glory  Song**  with  a  fine  fervour,  with  a  wrenching 


4  DEMOCRACY 

of  spirit  which  brought  the  tears  welling  to  his  dim 
blue  eyes,  as  he  led  the  singing  of  a  regenerated  city. 

You  could  not  mistake  those  eyes.  They  swam 
unsteadily  in  twin  pools  of  limpid  white,  each  eye 
with  a  tiny  black  iris  that  looked  into  the  distances  of 
the  spirit.  Now,  bedewed  with  emotion,  he  made  his 
appeal  thinly: 

"...  the  voiceless  chorus  of  the  great  Middle 
Classes  of  England  goes  up  to  Heaven,  day  and  night. 
Ground  out  by  the  modem  inquisitors,  who  pry  not 
only  into  our  purses,  but  into  the  sacredness  of  the 
home — ^urged  on  by  a  Government  which,  under  the 
whip  of  the  revolutionist,  has  long  since  lost  all  sense 
of  proportion  and  of  that  sanity  which,  with  the  Bible, 
is  the  supreme  heritage  of  the  English  people — these 
licensed  pickpockets  seek  to  rob  us  of  our  religion  and 
our  hard-earned  savings  at  one  and  the  same  time." 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  the  honesty  of  the  man 
— ^his  fanatical  virtue — that  fanaticism  which  Destin 
had  first  noticed  at  the  Torrey-Alexander  meeting. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  Bull  to  let  a  little  smile  run 
across  his  blunt,  honest-looking  jowl,  as  he  nosed 
towards  the  speaker  when  he,  the  man  of  millions, 
had  referred  to  "hard-earned  savings"  to  a  meeting 
which  he  could  buy  up,  body  and  blood  and  bank 
balance,  but  Destin  knew  a  sincere  man  when  he  saw 
him,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  Brink's  sincerity. 
It  was  the  deep-souled  conviction  of  the  "Glory  Song" 
carried  into  the  realms  of  £  s.  d. 

The  meeting  was  silent.  As  he  looked  at  them, 
Destin  thought  of  hounds  on  an  invisij^le  trail.  There 
was  something  lean  and  hungry  and  implacable  about 
it — 3,  sureness  of  the  end  of  the  tracking  that  irri- 
tated and  frightened  him.     Anyhow,  what  business 


THE  RED  SEED  5 

was  it  of  his?  Why  did  his  heart  beat  faster?  He 
was  not  a  Socialist.  He  was  a  Democrat,  and  in  his 
mind  there  was  a  nice  difference.  In  his  mind  there 
were  always  nice  differences.  Yet  that  sureness  irri- 
tated him.  Brink  irritated  him — though  he  liked  him 
too.  The  respectable  men  on  the  platform  irritated 
him.  But  above  all,  Bull,  with  his  eternal  honesty-  of 
line,  placarded  on  a  thousand  hoardings  and  mirrored 
in  the  halfpenny  illustrateds,  irritated  him. 

Destin  felt  that  on  him  lay  the  dead  mass  of  this 
respectability.  The  pressure  was  intolerable  —  the 
more  intolerable  that  within  him  he  felt  that  strange 
stirring — that  restlessness  of  spirit  which  a  doctor  had 
once  told  him  was  a  tendency  to  hysteria  .  .  .  "the 
neurasthenia  of  the  age."    But  was  it? 

"  .  .  .  I  am  sure  we  are  heartily  indebted  to  Sir 
James  Brink  for  championing  the  cause  of  us  strug- 
gling tradesmen.  I'm  sure  I  speak  from  my  'art  and 
from  the  'art  of  thousands  and  thousands  of  others, 
when  I  say  to  him — Thank  you,  Sir  James,  you  have 
this  day  lighted  a  lamp  in  Hengland  which  the  Red 
Flood  shall  not  hextinguish.   .    .    .' " 

Destin  looked  at  the  little  shrunken  grey-bearded 
man  in  the  shiny  frock-coat,  who  in  simple  words 
tried  to  express  the  thanks  of  his  heart.  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  little  tradesman  making  itself  heard  as 
one  of  the  non-coms,  in  the  battle-front  that  was  pre- 
paring. Bull's  clarion  call  rang  out  in  contrast. 
Brink's  phrases  had  been  those  of  the  chaplain  of 
the  new  army — the  splendid  flame  of  religious  fanati- 
cism which  lifted  the  fight  from  the  sordidness  of 
self  and  pelf  to  the  rarer  strata  of  a  Holy  War — 3. 
Jehad  that  should  be  preached  throughout  the  lands 
of  the  white  peoples.     And  now  there  was  another. 


6  DEMOCRACY 

He  had  never  heard  that  voice  before,  but  he  knew 
that  never  again  would  he  forget  it.  It  was  beauti- 
fully modulated,  with  something  of  the  hiss  of  the 
rapier  underneath.  Gentle  as  the  waters  of  Lethe,  it 
fathomed  in  its  depths  an  undercurrent  of  acid  dis- 
dain that  held  the  ear  enthralled.  The  word  ran 
sibilant  around  the  meeting — "Courcy — Courcy.** 

The  name  hissed  itself  from  lip  to  lip,  as  the  play 
of  words  sprayed  gently  upon  the  awakening  ears. 
Men  had  craned  forward,  listening  with  eye  as  well 
as  ear,  Destin  amongst  the  others.'  He  felt  that  each 
syllable  was  of  import — that  nothing  must  be  lost. 
"Courcy  .    .    .   Courcy." 

Courcy — deadly,  sweet-mouthed,  vitriolic  Courcy. 
Courcy — leader  of  the  Opposition  in  the  House. 
Courcy,  that  gentle-mannered  Prince  of  Politics, 
whose  phrases  crept  like  snakes  through  the  chancel- 
leries of  Europe.  Courcy — philosopher  and  mystic. 
Courcy — Abated,  loved,  Courcy. 

How  sweetly  he  spoke  now.  "My  friends,  these 
are  not  the  times,  these  dangerous,  razor-edged  times, 
for  blind  anger,  for  hasty  words  and  hastier  action. 
These  are  the  times  when  above  all  others  the  states- 
man must  be  a  philosopher,  a  man  with  a  brain  of 
ice  and  a  heart  of  gold — yes,  and  I  will  say  it — 2l  man 
who  carries  in  that  heart  the  dread  of  interference 
with  Destiny,  implanted  by  the  Divine  Principle  in 
Man,  by  whatever  name  we  call  it. 

"Excellent  as  were  the  speeches  to  which  I  have 
just  listened — sound  and  sane  in  tone  and  temper — 
there  was,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  one  little 
thing  lacking.  The  little  thing  that  is  known  as  the 
milk  of  human  kindness. 

"Let  us  say  once  and  for  all,  at  this,  the  beginning 


THE  RED  SEED  7 

of  what  I  conceive  to  be  a  Holy  Crusade  against  the 
enemy  of  society,  that  some  of  our  opponents  at  least 
are  honest.  Honesty  is  not  the  perquisite  of  any  po- 
litical party  in  the  State.  They,  like  us,  are  human 
beings  of  a  common  Creator.  Blinded  as  they  are — 
distorted  as  are  their  views — ^nay,  even  blasphemous 
and  brutal  as  they  are- — let  us  never  forget  that  they 
are  human  beings  like  ourselves,  children  of  the  Com- 
mon Purpose  they  have  distorted — wilful,  erring  chil- 
dren, whom,  whilst  we  chastise,  and  chastise  with  the 
mercy  of  merciless  justice,  we  shall  remember  may 
yet  be  brought  to  the  ways  of  sanity  and  the  pleasant 
paths  of  peace  in  the  State. 

"And  when  I  say  *we,*  I  mean  every  loyal  citizen, 
whether  Liberal  or  Conservative.  This  is  no  time  for 
academic  distinctions  of  party — ^no  time  for  a  nice 
appraisement  of  the  political  and  ethical  values  of  the 
historic  parties  of  the  State.  It  is  enough  to  know 
that  each  honest  man  amongst  us  has  to  make  his 
choice  which  he  this  day  will  serve — *God  or  Mam- 
mon'— the  Principle  of  Righteousness,  or  that  of  envy, 
greed,  and  class  hate.  For,  as  my  friend.  Sir  James 
Brink,  has  said — The  fight  before  us  is  something 
more  than  a  fight  for  wealth  and  power — it  is  a  fight 
for  the  Eternal  Verities — it  is  the  fight  of  a  spiritual 
principle  against  the  sordid  materialism  of  our  times.' 
We,  at  least,  are  on  the  side  of  the  angels." 

There  was  a  spiritual  uplifting  in  the  face  of  the 
speaker,  a  tenseness  of  soul,  moving  loftily  in  the 
rarified  strata  of  intellect,  which  made  the  men  and 
women  before  him  forget  his  well-known  agnosticism, 
his  gospel  of  philosophic  negation — an  uplifting  which 
filled  each  heart  there  with  a  confused  but  none  the 
less  potent  sureness  that  this  war  against  the  Red 


8  DEMOCRACY 

Peril  was  a  Holy  War,  which  barbed  the  shaft  of 
smooth,  formless  hate  with  the  hold-fast  of  religion. 
The  first  silence  had  passed  into  mutterings  and  thence 
had  frothed  itself  into  a  flying  spume  of  cheers  which 
ended  in  a  reverberation  that  shook  the  hall  as  the 
speaker  threw  out  the  phrase — "the  side  of  the  angels," 
a  pledge  of  triumphant  assurance  in  the  battle  to 
come. 

Yet,  Courcy's  next  words  came  chillingly.  It  was 
Courcy's  way  —  a  fatal  way  —  the  way  of  agnostic 
omniscience,  which  always  ended  on  a  note  of  pessi- 
mism. 

"It  IS  my  duty  to  warn  you,  however,  that  the  battle 
which  is  opening  will  be  no  affair  of  months  or  even 
a  handspan  of  years.  It  is  an  Armageddon,  which 
may  outlast  our  time  and  the  time  of  our  children,  or 
even  of  our  children's  children.  The  Red  Seed  has 
been  sown  unsparingly.  It  has  been  scattered  by  the 
sowers  of  blood  into  our  newspapers,  our  homes,  our 
ordinary  social  lives.  It  has  fallen  in  dark,  uncon- 
sidered places  as  well  as  in  the  light  of  day.  It  has 
been  sown  not  only  here  in  Britain  but  amongst  the 
Latin  and  Teutonic  millions.  It  has  been  flung  wide 
across  the  Atlantic  to  our  kith  and  kin — to  the  Antip- 
odes— ^yes,  and  even  a  sprinkling  has  fallen  on  the 
Yellow  and  Brown  races — a  sowing  of  dragon's  teeth 
to  bring  up  soldiers  out  of  the  ground,  one  day,  per- 
haps, to  challenge  the  supremacy  of  the  White 
Race. 

"It  has  fallen  into  the  bowels  of  the  mine,  as  on 
the  desks  of  our  city  offices — it  has  run,  like  the  evil 
bindweed  it  is,  underground  through  our  Trade 
Unions — it  has  even  found  a  roothold  about  the  triple 
pillars  of  the  State — the  army,  the  navy,  and  the  po- 


THE  RED  SEED  9 

lice.  No  man  can  say  where  next  the  red  seed  will 
be  sown  and  the  red  harvest  spring  up. 

"Yet,  I  believe  that  the  resolution  I  am  supporting 
here  to-day,  a  resolution  which  has  for  its  object  the 
unification  into  an  anti-Socialist  federation  of  the 
forces  of  Liberalism  and  Conservatism,  will,  in  these 
islands,  be  the  nucleus  of  a  burning,  purifying  nebula, 
which,  in  the  political  and  social  heavens,  shall  burn 
up  and  purify  our  country  from  the  Red  Seed  and  the 
Red  Peril." 

It  was  the  speech  known  in  the  days  to  follow  as 
the  "Red  Seed"  speech. 

The  coldness  that  had  fallen  with  Courcy's  warn- 
ing of  the  immensity  of  the  issues  opening  out  had 
once  more  given  way  to  the  thunderous  cheers  of  a 
fanatical  audience,  sure  in  the  righteousness  and  ulti- 
mate triumph  of  its  cause. 

"Will  you  take  an  amendment  to  the  resolution, 
Mr.  Chairman?" 

The  raucous  voice  cut  like  a  buzz-saw  across  the 
stillness  that  had  followed  the  cheers.    It  was  Destines. 

Denis  Destin  had  sat  there  speech  after  speech,  all 
the  neurasthenia  of  his  soul  rising  like  a  miasma,  his 
mind  a  hive  of  singing  nerves.  That  splenetic  irrita- 
tion which  was  ever  with  him — that  useless  desire  to 
action  from  which  he  was  ever  held  in  frozen  im- 
potence— all  these  things  were  with  him  now.  His 
irritation  at  the  chairman,  at  Brink,  at  the  little  trades- 
man, had  culminated  in  a  sort  of  frenzy  as  Courcy 
finished  his  speech. 

Thus  it  was  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he 
found  himself  on  his  feet  as  a  speaker,  scarcely  con- 
scious that  he  had  risen,  ignorant  of  what  he  was  go- 
ing to  do  now  that  he  had  got  there,  calling  with  a 


10  DEMOCRACY 

larynx  that  suffocated  under  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
— "Will  you  take  an  amendment  to  the  resolution, 
Mr.  Chairman?" 

In  his  back  he  felt  the  thousands  of  eyes  that  fo- 
cussed  themselves  upon  him.  Before  him,  he  caught 
the  amazement  of  the  platform,  the  quick  bending 
forward  of  the  dapper  little  Secretary  who  whispered 
into  the  unheeding  ears  of  Bull. 

Bull  at  least  was  not  startled.  Bull  knew  every  turn 
of  the  game  of  public  meeting.  Nothing  could  sur- 
prise the  man  who  had  weathered  the  storms  of 
twenty-five  years  of  hostile  meetings. 

For  he  knew  that  Destin  was  hostile.  Every  man 
and  woman  there  knew  he  was  hostile.  The  tall, 
threatening  form  —  the  forward-thrusting  jaw  —  the 
inexorable  nose — the  bony  forehead — the  eyes  that 
contracted  as  they  gazed — the  rebellion  of  straight 
dark  brown  hair  that  ran  backwards  over  the  square 
head — all  proclaimed  him  an  enemy  within  the  gate. 

Perhaps — and  the  consciousness  of  it  burst  upon 
the  meeting  simultaneously — he  was  a  Socialist  enemy. 
A  low  hiss  came  from  the  back  of  the  hall — then  an- 
other, until  the  place  was  sibilant,  with  an  undertone 
of  groaning  derision.  The  storm  broke  about  his 
head. 

But  this  boy-man  in  the  early  twenties  had  the 
quality  of  all  demagogues — the  capacity  to  lose  fear 
in  opposition.  Formidable,  brutal,  as  he  looked,  there 
was  something  almost  nervously  helpless,  something 
unconscious,  about  him,  as  though  he  were  an  autom- 
aton pulled  by  invisible  strings. 

Again  the  great  voice,  now  not  so  raucous,  boomed 
across  the  room— "Will  you  take  an  amendment?" 

Bull  had  risen  to  his  feet  with  a  smile.    A  lift  of 


THE  RED  SEED  11 

his  smooth,  rather  small  hand,  and  the  audience  was 
stilled. 

"My  friends,  let  us  not  forget  *the  milk  of  human 
kindness*  of  which  Mr.  Courcy  has  spoken."  There 
was  a  twinkle  in  the  eye — it  might  have  been  the 
twinkle  of  malevolence  or  of  humour. 

His  voice  changed  dourly,  as  he  looked  at  Destin. 
"What  is  your  amendment?" 

"It  is  an  amendment  against  the  resolution,"  blun- 
dered Destin,  who,  indeed,  had  no  particular  amend- 
ment in  his  mind — only  the  overmastering  drive  of 
irritation  and  opposition. 

"What  is  it?"  went  on  the  chairman,  implacably. 

"It  is  an  amendment  against  forming  the  new  Fed- 
eration." 

"That  is  not  an  amendment  but  a  fresh  resolution," 
retorted  the  chairman  with  bland  brutality.  "It  is  a 
pity  that  some  of  our  Socialist  friends  have  the  same 
vast  ignorance  of  the  rules  of  public  meeting  that  they 
have  of  society. 

"I  am  not  a  Socialist,"  said  Destin  simply. 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  chairman  suavely,  "there 
can  be  no  object  in  your  moving  an  amendment  to  a 
resolution  which  has  for  its  aim  the  destruction  of 
Socialism." 

"Sit  down !  Shut  up !  Chuck  him  out !"  came  from 
the  benches  around  him. 

Destin  found  his  brain  and  his  voice  together.  The 
opposition  had  done  what  nothing  else  could  do — it 
had  steeled  him. 

"Well,  then,  I  wish  to  speak  against  the  resolu- 
tion, and  as  a  citizen  and  one  of  the  'human  beings' 
referred  to  by  Mr.  Courcy,  who  happens  not  to  agree 
with  you,  I  claim  the  right  of  free  speech  at  a  public 


12  DEMOCRACY 

meeting.  You  do  not,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Chairman,  wish 
it  to  go  out  to  the  world  that  at  your  initial  meeting 
you  forbade  the  right  of  free  speech?" 

It  was  a  hit.    Courcy  was  speaking  to  the  chairman. 

Again  Bull  had  quieted  the  rising  anger  of  the 
meeting. 

"I  will  give  you  five  minutes  to  speak,  and  you  will 
kindly  come  up  to  the  platform.  Nobody  shall  say 
that  the  anti-Socialist  Federation  stifled  free  speech. 
Socialist  or  no  Socialist,  you  are  free  of  the  platform, 
Mr. ?" 

"Destin." 

"Mr.  Destin — ^an  un-English  name,  if  the  gentle- 
man will  let  me  say  so.    Perhaps  he  is  a  German?" 

Bull's  careful  insolence  completed  Destines  coolness. 

As  in  his  impetuousness  he  tried  to  clamber  up  the 
front  of  the  low  platform,  instead  of  taking  the  stairs 
at  the  side,  his  foot  slipped,  his  knee  striking  the  edge 
and  jarring  him. 

It  was  an  angry  Destin  that  found  himself  facing 
an  already  hostile  and  disdainful  audience.  He  looked 
a  little  ridiculous  as  he  stood  there,  his  trousers  cov- 
ered with  the  dust  of  his  fall,  his  face  pale,  his  stub- 
born, rather  long  hair  and  strongly-marked  features 
in  almost  grotesque  contrast  to  the  people  at  whom 
he  was  looking.  The  meeting  was  still  laughing  at 
his  fall. 

"Now,  Mr.— er — Destin,"  came  from  the  chairman 
behind  him. 

From  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  caught  the  six  feet 
odd  of  Courcy,  coiled  into  negligent  and  blank  in- 
difference, the  arms  folded,  the  head  coming  forward 
a  little,  the  eyes  peering  blindly  through  the  pince-nez, 

"I  am  not  a  German  and  I  am  not  a  Socialist,"  be- 


THE  RED  SEED  13 

gan  Destin.  "I  am  the  child  of  an  English  mother 
and  an  Irish  father,  and  in  politics  I  am  what  I  sup- 
pose you  would  call  a  Democrat.  The  same  as  Mr. 
Bull,"  he  said  whimsically. 

The  audience  were  obviously  bored  by  this  personal 
recital,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  show  it,  though  in 
well-bred  fashion.  "Go  on !  Go  on !  Let's  hear  what 
youVe  got  to  say!"  whilst  from  the  back,  in  leaden 
humour,  smacked  a  voice — "Cut  the  cackle  and  come 
to  the  'osses !"  punctuated  by  a  crackle  of  laughter. 

"The  reason  I  oppose  the  resolution,"  went  on 
Destin,  "is  because  it  is  a  resolution  of  blind  negation. 
It  ignores  everything  that  cannot,  must  not,  be  ignored. 
It  speaks  of  destruction — ^not  construction,  of  destroy- 
ing the  new  force  in  society,  whether  we  like  that 
force  or  not,  without  putting  an)rthing  in  its  place." 

The  meeting  listened  in  stolid  silence.  It  faced  him 
like  a  wall  reared  there  blankly  against  him.  He  could 
feel  it,  as  he  often  felt  it  afterwards,  as  an  impenetra- 
ble mass,  formidable  with  a  dead  life.  It  blanketed 
his  soul,  hobbled  his  tongue,  stopped  him  as  no  active 
opposition  could  do. 

For  a  moment  his  thoughts  left  him.  He  faltered. 
The  meeting  felt  it,  and  sat  there  gloating  in  trium- 
phant stolidity.  His  mind  turned  in  a  squirrel  cage. 
Vainly  he  cast  back  to  pick  up  the  lost  trail  of  his 
thoughts.  What  was  it  he  had  meant  to  say?  What 
was  the  phrase  he  had  to  remember? 

In  fine  carelessness,  he  had  disdained  notes.  What 
was  it? 

"Get  off !  Get  off !"  called  one  or  two  voices  from 
the  back.  "Come  off  if  youVe  nothing  to  say."  And 
then  in  strident  derision — "Democrat !" 

Behind  him  he  felt  Bull  smiling  at  his  discomfiture. 


14  DEMOCRACY 

At  his  side,  Courcy*s  blank  indifference.  Brink's  in- 
dignant fanaticism.  The  platform  of  little  tradesmen, 
fussing  and  fuming  at  such  shocking  waste  of  time, 
as  business  men  who  knew  that  time  was  money — the 
impatience  of  reality  with  its  arch-foe — idealism. 

Again  and  again  his  brain  cast  back  for  the  lost 
trail.  The  more  he  tried  to  visualise  it,  the  more  it 
eluded  him.  What  was  the  phrase  ?  The  loom  of  his 
mind  was  twirling  inside  his  skull,  spell-binding  his 
thoughts  in  a  woolly  tangle.  He  could  see  it  churning 
now  in  a  tangle  of  red.  "Red."  "Red."  What  was 
it  that  was  red?  Then,  as  he  passed  into  blank  un- 
consciousness, the  phrase  came  to  him.  "The  Red 
Seed."  He  found  himself  speaking — speaking  like  an 
automaton,  the  phrases  pouring  out  torrentially  as 
though  a  familiar  were  speaking  through  the  gullet  of 
his  throat. 

The  cries  had  died  away.  The  men  and  women 
there  were  listening — contracted  with  hate,  but  listen- 
ing. 

"Mr.  Courcy  has  spoken  of  the  Red  Seed.  Well,  I 
ask  you  who  are  the  sowers  ?  Who  shall  be  the  reap- 
ers?   What  is  the  Seed? 

"If  it  be  the  seed  of  bloody,  revengeful  revolution 
— if  it  be  the  seed  of  envious  impotence — if  it  be  the 
blind  seed  of  class  hate — then  it  does  not  need  anti- 
Socialist  Federations  to  stamp  it  out — it  will  choke 
itself  as  it  comes  up — choke  itself  with  the  weeds  of 
the  evil  thoughts  sown  with  it. 

"If  it  be  the  seed  of  death — ^then  it  will  be  barren 
with  the  sterility  of  death.  If  it  be  the  seed  of  de- 
struction— then  it  will  destroy  itself. 

"But,  supposing  it  be  another  kind  of  seed?  Sup- 
posing it  be  the  seed  of  new  thoughts — of  new  desires 


THE  RED  SEED  IS 

— of  new  developments — the  seed  of  a  newer  civilisa- 
tion to  rear  itself  out  of  the  decay  of  our  sick  civili- 
sation of  to-day?  Supposing  it  be  the  seed  set  in  the 
cries  of  our  starving  millions — in  our  unsatisfied  and 
brutalised  working  classes — seed  set  in  the  body  of 
the  harlot  on  our  pavements — in  the  mind  of  the  scien- 
tist in  the  laboratory — yes,  even  in  the  impotent  ideal- 
ism of  our  churches  and  chapels? 

"Supposing  it  be  the  seed  of  the  Eternal  Impulse 
with  its  age-long  drive  ? 

"The  earth  to-day  trembles  with  the  event  of  the 
seed.  It  feels  in  its  age-old  womb  the  throbbings  and 
the  wrenchings  which  have  ever  heralded  in  the  past 
the  working  of  the  blind  foetus  of  men's  thoughts 
towards  the  light.  Who  can  stop  that  miraculous  birth 
— can  strangle  the  spirit  of  youth? 

"Can  the  Anti-Socialist  Federation  stop  it?  Can 
Mr.  Courcy  or  Mr.  Bull  stop  it?  Can  they  force  back 
into  abortion  the  insistent,  pulsating  thing  that  is 
waiting  to  be  born? 

"Will  they — will  you — will  I — ^be  the  midwives»or 
the  abortionists  of  the  new  society?  Nay,  can  we  be 
the  abortionists  even  if  we  will  ? 

"Can  we  view  with  calmness  the  terrific  engine  you 
and  I  and  all  of  us  have  created  in  the  earth — the  en- 
gine of  a  competitive  Juggernaut  in  which  all  that  is 
best,  all  that  is  helpless,  all  that  is  other  than  brutal 
and  rampant  is  crushed?  Can  we  see  unmoved  the 
enslavement  of  the  majority  by  the  minority  —  the 
howling  wilderness  of  hunger  in  our  cities — ^the  never- 
ceasing  grind  of  those  mills  in  which  the  minds  and 
bodies  of  women,  children,  and  youth  are  ground — 
ground  as  the  mills  of  God  grind? 

"Can  we  see  Europe  an  armed  camp,  a-bristle  with 


16  DEMOCRACY 

bayonets — ^hear  the  earth  shake  to  the  tramp  of  Teu- 
ton and  Latin — of  American  and  Mongolian — see  Eu- 
rope a  powder  magazine  into  which  at  any  moment  a 
spark  may  be  thrown  to  blow  back  into  the  time-abyss 
anything  of  civilisation  we  have  been  able  to  rear? 

**The  Red  Seed!  Supposing  it  is  we  who  are  sow- 
ing the  Red  Seed — the  Seed  which  shall  spring  out  of 
the  sodden  ground  to  drench  it  anew  with  blood?  Sup- 
posing we  are  the  Red  Sowers? 

"Supposing  that  other  Seed  which  it  is  here  our 
sworn  purpose  to  blast  in  the  ground  be  the  Seed  of  a 
newer  and  better  Society — of  a  Society  where  cooper- 
ation rather  than  competition  shall  be  the  order  of  the 
day?    Supposing  it  be  the  Seed  of  God  Himself?*' 

Destin  got  no  further.  In  a  moment,  the  combusti- 
ble materials  which  had  piled  themselves  up  before 
him  under  the  silence  of  the  meeting  had  exploded. 

"Blasphemy !    Blasphemy !" 

The  word  ran  round  the  hall,  curling  into  a  great 
wave  of  hate  that  met  and  smashed  upwards  in  the 
centre. 

He  felt  himself  caught  up  in  the  whirlpool.  Swung 
round,  now  off  his  feet,  now  touching  ground  for  a 
moment.  A  swirling,  maddened  movement  of  which 
he  was  the  nucleus. 

There  was  a  swaying — an  unbearable  pressure — ^an 
opening  out — the  cool  air  on  his  face — ^and  he  found 
himself  on  the  city  pavement,  his  coat  hanging  from 
him,  the  trickle  of  something  warm  on  his  cheek. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  new  challenge.  The 
Magog  meeting  had  shown  that  even  in  the  sacred 
City  itself  the  Red  Seed  had  been  sown,  for  black- 
coated  men  and  unimportant  women  had  risen  in  all 
parts  of  the  hall  when  the  cry  of  blasphemy  had 


THE  RED  SEED  17 

circled,  to  raise  their  voices  with  the  man  on  the  plat- 
form. 

The  new  Democracy  had  thrown  down  the  gauntlet 
to  organised  Society  as  Buster  Bull  had  said,  and 
organised  Society  had  taken  it  up.  It  was  but  the 
prelude  of  the  final  victory  over  the  Red  Peril. 


II 


TAKING   UP   THE   GAUNTLET 

Destin  found  himself  a  Socialist  the  next  morning. 
The  Daily  Meteor,  which  always  knew  everything, 
said  so,  and  even  the  Liberal  organs  agreed.  Destin 
had  discovered  it  himself  the  day  before  on  the  pave- 
ment outside  the  Magog. 

The  "Magog"  had  hammered  him  out.  Had  welded 
the  largeness  of  his  "democracy"  into  the  deiiniteness 
of  Socialism.  Had  shocked  him  into  a  new  and  harder 
consciousness.    And  it  was  a  shock. 

For  Destin  had  always  revolted  from  the  Socialist 
dogma:  from  what  he  conceived  to  be  a  soulless  ma- 
terialism— a  movement  without  a  religion — without  a 
God,  if  you  wish.  "The  material  conception  of  his- 
tory" left  his  Celtic  heart  unmoved.  Now,  in  spite  of 
himself,  he  had  been  driven  into  the  sinister,  doubtful 
thing — had  been  forced  to  take  sides  in  the  struggle 
that  was  preparing.  He  was  "a  Socialist,"  but  with 
reservations  and  under  protest. 

He  soon  found  that  in  the  society  of  the  future 
there  would  be  no  reservations.  He  found  it  the  next 
morning  at  Messrs.  Peabody  and  Parsons,  where  he 
earned  his  living  as  Secretary-Manager. 

In  the  interview  which  followed  with  his  chiefs  he 
made  one  or  two  curious  discoveries,  which  left  him 
astonished.  The!3e  things  were  always  astonishing 
him. 


TAKING  UP  THE  GAUNTLET  19 

He  discovered  that  "democracy"  held  many  things 
besides  the  quaHties  usually  associated  with  it.  Here 
was  little  Mr.  Parsons,  an  extreme  Radical,  who  posi- 
tively gloried  in  his  "democracy,"  which  he  spouted 
picturesquely  through  a  cloud  of  moustache  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  with  a  shaking  of  the  mane  of  black 
hair  and  punctuated  by  the  twinkle  of  two  eyes  of 
brilliant  black,  now  telling  him  with  the  same  shake 
of  mane,  through  the  same  moustache,  that  "really, 
Destin,  though,  as  a  Democrat,  I  believe  in  Free 
Speech  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  there  are  limits." 
And  when  Mr.  Parsons  said  "limits,"  he  snapped  his 
strong  white  teeth  behind  the  veil  of  moustache  and 
flashed  his  eyes  in  much  the  same  manner  as  a  wire- 
haired  terrier  might  do  when  dealing  with  cats,  or 
rats,  or  other  vermin. 

What  made  it  all  the  more  incomprehensible  was 
that  this  same  Mr.  Parsons  had  had  frequent  and 
rather  acrimonious  discussions  with  his  partner,  Mr. 
Peabody,  who  was  a  Tory  of  the  old  school  as  he  was 
always  pridefully  declaring.  They  had  raged  in  gen- 
tlemanly irritation  and  with  due  regard  for  the  par- 
liamentary amenities,  interspersing  their  arguments 
with  protesting — "my  dear  fellows,"  and  "really.  P., 
old  boy,  you  must  know,"  and  so  on  over  the  topical 
question  of  Free  Trade  or  Protection. 

Parsons  in  these  discussions  had  snapped  himself 
into  a  fury  of  Free  Trade  individualism,  whilst  Mr. 
Peabody,  bland  and  dignified  in  his  Dundreary  whis- 
kers, with  pinched,  aristocratic  nose,  set  whitely  upon 
a  scorbutic  countenance,  though,  it  seemed,  an  Indi- 
vidualist, found  his  Individualism  so  strongly  striped 
with  Protection  that  it  cut  him  off  from  that  of  his 
partner. 


20  DEMOCRACY 

Now,  It  seemed,  these  two  gentlemen  had  quite 
settled  their  differences,  and,  sitting  entrenched  behind 
the  board  room  table,  dealt  unitedly  with  the  common 
enemy — dealt  firmly,  but  with  tactful  blandness  on 
Mr.  Peabody's  part  and  with  protesting  though 
friendly  argument  upon  that  of  Mr.  Parsons,  which 
mostly  took  the  interrogative  form. 

Destin  could  not  understand  it.  Fanatical  though 
he  himself  was  —  impatient  of  contradiction  in  the 
faith  that  was  in  him — ^yet  he  had  with  it  in  the  ab- 
stract a  fine  tolerance  for  discussion;  for  everything 
with  him  was  a  matter  for  discussion,  to  be  talked 
over,  churned  into  mental  chile,  and  assimilated  or  re- 
jected.   He  would  have  all  men  to  be  saved. 

He  would  even  have  Peabody  and  Parsons  to  be 
saved,  which  he  tried  to  make  clear  to  those  grace- 
fully indignant  gentlemen.  And  here  were  those  ar- 
gumentative individuals  refusing  even  to  discuss  the 
matter  with  him,  flinging  away  their  chances  of  sal- 
vation with  both  tongues. 

It  seemed  they  both  had  been  at  the  Magog  meet- 
ing. They  had  both  been  witnesses  of  "the  disgrace- 
ful exhibition"  (to  quote  Mr.  Peabody)  of  their 
Secretary.    They  both  wanted  explanations. 

Denis  Destin  was  quite  prepared  to  give  them  "ex- 
planations." As  many  as  they  wanted — perhaps  more 
than  they  wanted.  But  he  found  they  did  not  want 
argument.  Destines  form  of  explanation  was  always 
an  argument. 

He  tried  to  put  his  views  before  the  implacable 
pair,  but  found  his  ideas  losing  themselves  in  Mr. 
Peabody's  whiskers  and  in  Mr.  Parsons'  moustache. 
What  he  resented  more  than  anything  else  was  the 
obvious  sincerity  of  both  men.    If  he  could  have  felt 


TAKING  UP  THE  GAUNTLET  21 

that  they  were  "crooked,"  it  would  have  been  easier 
to  understand  and  to  bear.  But  they  were  each  as 
genuine  and  as  fanatical  as  himself.  Destines  fanati- 
cism never  blinded  him  on  these  points,  though  he 
didn't  like  fanaticism  in  other  people. 

Finding  them  impervious  to  reason,  and  discover- 
ing new  hates  for  both  these  gentlemen,  he  burned 
his  boats,  leaving  his  employers  blandly  uncomforta- 
ble though  outwardly  unmoved  at  his  frank  and  fluent 
expressions  of  opinion.  They  discovered  a  hitherto 
entirely  unsuspected  Destin  —  a  fierce,  rather  coarse 
animal,  with  a  voice  that  from  the  flageolet  of  civili- 
sation had  become  a  trumpet  blast. 

Destin  on  his  part  found  that  the  walls  of  Jericho 
did  not  subside  at  the  blast  of  any  trumpet,  which 
rather  surprised  him.  Messrs.  Peabody  and  Parsons 
had  no  use  for  explanations  which  were  really  argu- 
ments and  finished  with  criticisms. 

Not  that  Destin  minded  going.  In  fact,  he  had  in- 
tended to  go,  but  in  his  own  good  time.  As  a  tri- 
umphant demagogue,  he  would  have  liked  to  march 
away  from  Jericho  with  drums  beating  and  a  flutter 
of  scarlet  at  the  head.  But  the  event  had  forced  his 
hand. 

Democracy  was  throwing  down  the  gauntlet  and 
Society  was  taking  it  up  cheerfully. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  being  brought 
nose  round  to  reality.  Hitherto  he  had  lived  in  a 
dream-world  —  now  that  world  was  melting  thinly 
away,  leaving  Society  entrenched  behind  the  towers 
and  escarpments  of  fact. 

It  was  an  angry  but  triumphant  Destin  that  walked 
out  of  Messrs.  Peabody  and  Parsons'  offices  with  a 
month's  wages  in  his  pocket.    He  felt  he  had  scored. 


22  DEMOCRACY 

He  did  not  know  exactly  how,  but  he  felt  it.  He  had 
finished  with  "the  City."    That  he  knew  inevitably. 

He  summed  up  his  resources.  A  few  pounds  in 
the  Savings  Bank.  A  cheque  for  twelve  pounds  ten 
shillings  in  his  pocket.  Board  and  lodging  with  his 
mother  and  father  until  he  could  see  what  could  be 
done  as  a  journalist. 

For  Destin  had  been  "writing  for  the  papers."  A 
lean,  secretive  kind  of  writing.  But,  yet,  a  commence- 
ment. He  could  not  help  writing  any  more  than  talk- 
ing.   He  was  a  writing,  talking  animal. 

His  mind  cast  back  in  comfort  to  the  four-storeyed 
house  in  the  Beech  Road,  one  of  the  roads  running 
back  to  the  river  at  Hammersmith,  where  the  Destins, 
father,  mother,  and  son,  kept  up  appearances  in  the 
face  of  a  hostile  world  with  the  aid  of  a  little  servant, 
five  feet  nothing,  and  an  income  of  the  irreducible 
minimum. 

The  Destins  had  all  the  Irish  passion  for  a  big 
house.  In  a  neighbourhood  where  an  older  respecta- 
bility struggled  vainly  against  the  fever  of  sub-letting, 
they  had  found  the  big  house  at  the  low  price.  No.  9 
at  least  had  resisted  the  tendency  of  time  and  place, 
though  there  had  been  a  talk  of  "paying  guests"  soon 
after  Mr.  Destin,  the  retired  Government  official,  had 
decided  with  his  English  wife  that  the  merciful  im- 
mensity of  London  was  better  than  a  little  Irish  town 
upon  an  income  reduced  to  one-half. 

Destin  felt  that  in  the  Beech  Road  he  had  a  resting- 
place  for  the  soles  of  his  feet — a  taking  off  place  for 
his  flight  into  Fleet  Street.  His  father  and  mother 
at  least  would  help  and  understand  his  new  situation. 

But  would  they? 

It  came  upon  him  like  a  cloud  that  perhaps  they 


TAKING  UP  THE  GAUNTLET  23 

would  not.  An  only  child,  they  had  loved  him  after 
their  own  fashion;  his  soft-hearted,  grey-eyed  father 
with  all  the  affectionate  impulse  of  the  Irishman — his 
mother,  with  a  harder,  dourer,  more  chastened  love. 
But  had  they  understood  him?  Would  they  under- 
stand him  now?  Would  they  understand  the  Magog 
meeting? 

It  was  with  these  thoughts  that  he  turned  his  key 
in  the  Yale  lock  of  "The  Elms,"  and  entered  the  room 
on  the  right,  a  sparely  furnished  sitting  room. 

He  found  his  father,  big-shouldered  and  hunched, 
his  hands  sunk  in  the  crosspockets  of  his  Donegal 
tweed,  gazing  the  length  of  his  nose — a.  longer,  weaker 
edition  of  his  son*s — at  the  houses  opposite.  His 
iron-grey  hair,  parted  stiffly,  tufted  here  and  there  on 
the  rather  small,  round  head.  His  eyebrows  overhung 
bushily  the  grey,  limpid  eyes.  The  clean,  humorous, 
rather  weak-looking  mouth  hunched  itself,  like  the 
shoulders,  largely  over  the  chin,  a  thought  too  finely 
moulded.  He  looked,  as  Destin  sometimes  thought, 
like  a  tombstone — ^monumental,  with  the  long,  slender 
limbs,  small  hips,  and  expanse  of  flat  back. 

In  the  woman  who  sat  stiffly  by  the  empty  fireplace, 
one  saw  where  Denis  Destin  got  his  strength  of  line. 
In  the  straight  lips  and  tightened  jaw,  with  the  un- 
quenchable eyes,  black  as  the  brows  above  them,  lay 
the  strength  of  the  Destins.  The  mass  of  white  hair 
brushed  smoothly  off  the  high,  masculine  forehead; 
the  fineness  of  line  of  feature  and  skin ;  the  blue-veined 
tenseness  of  the  hands  that  lay  along  the  arms  of  her 
chair — ^all  showed  the  fine,  high  strength  of  an  im- 
conquerable  spirit. 

The  whiteness  of  hair  and  skin  came  in  dead,  ar- 
resting contrast  to  the  eyes,  full  of  fire. 


24  DEMOCRACY 

On  the  table  lay  the  Meteor,  which,  with  the  Bible, 
was  the  chief  literature  of  "The  Elms."  From  where 
he  stood,  he  could  see  the  sub-heading — "A  Socialist 
Fracas." 

Destin  waited  for  his  father  to  speak.  It  was  an 
unaccustomed  silence  that  met  him.  It  was  the  Magog 
silence  again. 

He  felt  he  must  explain  himself.  A  passion  for 
self -justification  rose  within  him.  But  he  felt  also 
that  explanation  was  useless.  He  knew  it  when  he 
entered  the  room. 

He  broke  off  in  the  middle.  "Have  you  nothing 
to  say  to  me?"  he  asked. 

The  great  shoulders  swung  round.  He  hardly 
knew  the  eyes  that  contracted  on  him — those  eyes  that 
could  be  so  tender.  He  had  seen  his  father  like  that 
before,  at  a  meeting  of  the  Church  Missionary  So- 
ciety. The  eyes  were  those  of  Brink.  Those  of  the 
little  tradesman.    He  began  to  know  them. 

All  at  once  his  father  erupted.  Harsh,  almost  brutal 
in  his  indictment  as  he  opened,  his  voice  broke  after 
one  unusual,  abrupt  sentence.  He  put  his  hands  to 
his  face. 

Then  he  went  on.  *We  always  said  you  would 
change.  When  you  were  a  little  boy  at  home  long 
ago,  we  saw  the  taint  in  you.  You  asked  questions 
about  your  church,  your  school — ^about  everything. 
We  thought  it  would  pass.  We  forgot  it.  When 
you  were  twenty,  you  brought  home  that  horrible 
Rationalist  Press  Association  literature  to  challenge 
and  frighten  us  anew.  You  queried  everything.  (You 
once  said  as  a  boy  that  you  would  query  God  Him- 
self.)   You  even  queried  your  own  atheist  literature. 


TAKING  UP  THE  GAUNTLET  25 

You  doubted  everything.  You  doubted  everything  the 
wisest  minds  of  all  time  had  known. 

"But  we  did  not  expect  this.  We  did  not  think 
that  a  son  of  ours  could  be  a  Socialist.  A  heralder  of 
revolution.  A  degrader  of  morals.  This  is  too  much." 
He  turned  away. 

Denis  Destin  turned  to  his  mother,  who  sat  stiffly 
upright. 

"Will  you  hear  me,  mother?" 

He  started  once  more  into  torrential  explanation 
and  self-justification.  As  he  spoke,  his  mother's 
mouth  began  to  twitch  in  that  dead,  even  palpitation 
like  the  beat  of  a  heart — ^the  twitch  that  had  stayed 
after  her  paralysis  of  five  years  before. 

The  dauntless  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Destin  went 
over  to  her  impulsively,  and  putting  his  arms  around 
her  neck,  a  rare  thing  with  him,  kissed  her.  He  knelt 
at  her  feet,  and  felt  the  trembling  hand  that  placed 
itself  on  his  head,  heard  the  gentle  voice  that  thrilled, 
now  with  passion,  now  with  exasperation,  as  it  recited 
the  /hopes,  the  dreads,  of  the  past  He  felt  his  spirit 
moved  as  it  passed  from  recitation  into  pleading — ^an 
appeal  in  which  religion  and  love  and  convention  and 
fear  all  blended. 

His  father  waited  by  the  window.  The  voice  ceased. 
They  were  silent  for  his  answer. 

Denis  Destin  heard  the  call  of  blood.  He  had  often 
ridiculed  the  idea  of  the  blood-tie — had  said  sometimes 
in  his  bitterness  that  anybody  or  everybody  under- 
stood something  of  him  rather  than  his  nearest.  But 
underneath,  he  knew  the  'blood-tie  perhaps  the  strong- 
est, subtlest,  of  tall  ties.  Knew  in  this  moment  that  the 
first  things  of  life  can  never  be  entirely  sloughed — 
that  they  cling  and  bind  long  after — ^nay,  even  that 


26  DEMOCRACY 

they  wrap  themselves  more  closely  in  the  long  after- 
wards. 

His  heart  cried  out  to  his  mother.  His  mind  ran  the 
thread  of  memory.  Found  the  loom  of  memory  spin- 
ning around  heart  and  brain.  In  the  throb  of  his 
heart,  he  felt  the  engine  that  drove  the  loom.  But 
even  as  it  spun  itself  to  suffocate  him,  he  felt  some- 
thing else  beat — something  deeper,  more  insistent — 
something  that  would  make  itself  heard. 

It  was  with  a  fine  impersonality,  a  detachment  that 
was  new  to  him,  that  he  told  them  he  could  not  turn 
back — that  the  Magog  had  put  the  handle  in  his  hands 
and  he  had  to  plough  his  furrow  to  the  end. 

He  found  himself  alone,  looking  out  into  the  watery 
rays  of  an  April  sun.  Society  was  taking  up  the 
gauntlet — ^not  cheerfully,  but  in  tears  and  tribulation 
— with  searchings  of  heart  and  wrenchings  of  spirit. 
Its  child  was  being  born  in  travail. 


L 


III 
THE  CHILLINGTON   HOUSE  REUNION 

As  he  stood  there,  a  double-knock  came  on  the  street 
door. 

The  little  servant  came  in,  holding  gingerly  with  the 
edge  of  her  sack  apron  an  enormous  square  envelope. 

Destin  stared  at  the  bold,  rather  scrawling  writing 
on  the  front,  "Denis  Destin,  Esq."  It  looked  formid- 
able. 

He  turned  it  over  and  looked  at  the  back.  A  coronet. 
This  was  something  beyond  his  ken. 

He  opened  it  as  though  it  contained  a  bomb.  And 
it  did. 

He  read  upon  a  thick,  plain  card: 

Chillington  House, 
Park  Lane,  W., 

April  25,  19 

Dear  Mr.  Destin — 

I  have  heard  about  the  "Magog"  meeting  and 
shall  be  so  glad  if  you  can  find  time  to  come  here  to- 
morrow at  4  to  meet  a  few  Socialist  friends. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 
Anna  Chillington. 

"Chillington."  Where  had  he  heard  that  name? 
Then  he  remembered. 

At  this  time  he  knew  nothing  of  the  Socialist  move- 
ment, but  like  most  of  the  other  fifty  millions  of  the 

27 


28  DEMOCRACY 

British  people,  he  had  heard  of  the  Duchess  of  Chil- 
lington — of  the  eccentric  Duchess — or  "the  Demo- 
cratic Duchess"  as  she  was  known.  But  how  did  she 
know  of  him  ?  He  found  out  later  that  the  Duchess  of 
Chillington  made  it  her  business  to  know  everything 
and  everybody. 

He  had  always  felt  vaguely  that  there  must  be  some- 
thing inspiring  in  a  real  live  duchess  becoming  a 
Socialist.  Especially  a  full-blooded  human  specimen 
like  Her  Grace  of  Chillington,  whose  portrait  when 
she  made  her  rare  appearances  at  Court  to  present  one 
of  her  numerous  daughters,  of  whom  she  looked  a 
splendid  elder  sister,  appeared  in  all  the  sixpennies  and 
even  in  that  picture  gallery  of  fame  and  fashion  and 
crime,  the  halfpenny  "Looking  Glass,"  which  never 
tired  of  "featuring"  her. 

One  day  she  was  shown  driving  her  famous  flying 
mare  "Starlight"  against  the  watch  on  the*  Carelands 
course.  Another,  riding  some  raking  fence  in  the 
Quorn  country  and  keeping  up  her  reputation  as  the 
most  daring  horsewoman  in  England.  Or  it  might  be 
a  picture  of  the  Duchess  nursing  a  sick  child  in  a 
Whitechapel  slum — ^and  not  made  for  the  occasion 
either,  for  her  heart  was  as  big  as  her  body. 

Then  Society  would  shiver  in  its  strawberry  leaves 
at  the  report  that  its  erring  sister  had  danced  with  an 
Eastend  docker  at  a  Shoreditch  Socialist  reunion,  or 
have  its  conscience  seared  by  the  story  that  she  had 
snubbed  a  bishop. 

And  now  he  was  to  meet  her  in  the  flesh. 

Denis  Destines  democratic  soul  sometimes  had  lapses 
into  snobbishness.  It  may  have  been  his  early  train- 
ing, or  something  innate,  but  he  often  found  himself 
to  his  own  indignant  astonishment  paying  involuntary 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    29 

tribute  to  rank  or  fashion  or  wealth.  He  hated  it.  But 
there  it  was. 

Perhaps  that  was  why  his  heart  beat  so  strongly  on 
the  Friday  afternoon  as  he  ascended  the  steps  of  Chil- 
lington  House.  He  was  not  eased  by  the  calf  and 
plush  of  the  footman  who  opened  the  door.  His  hat 
and  stick  and  gloves  were  however  carefully  removed 
from  his  person  as  he  moved  up  the  broad  stairway 
of  the  home  of  the  Chillingtons. 

As  the  doors  were  thrown  open,  he  heard  his  name 
called  with  shocking  distinctness  by  the  disdainful 
servant,  to  whom  he  had  imparted  it  confidentially  and 
with  considerable  diffidence — "Mr.  Destin."  He  had 
never  before  really  understood  that  he  was  a  "Mr. 
Destin" — it  quite  staggered  him. 

Destin  found  himself  enveloped  in  a  roar  of  sound 
which  poured  on  him  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
spacious  Louis  Quinze  drawing-room  with  one  great 
voice  that  boomed  itself  out  over  the  others.  He  could 
see  nothing.  Everything  was  revolving  around  him, 
until  he  was  brought  to  his  wits  by  a  beautiful  voice 
with  a  contralto  glug-glug  in  the  heart  of  it  and  found 
himself  gazing  on  the  original  of  the  "Looking  Glass" 
pictures. 

In  a  moment  he  felt  that  he  had  known  this  woman 
from  childhood.  He  could  almost  recall  the  stranded 
hair  of  dusky  red  carelessly  knotted  behind  in  the 
classical  coil  of  Greece.  He  knew  her.  There  could  be 
no  question  of  that.  Everybody  upon  first  meeting 
her  thought  they  had  known  the  Duchess  somewhere 
in  time  or  space. 

There  was  a  delicious  though  undemocratic  odour 
of  attar  of  roses — the  only  scent  the  Duchess  used.  It 
was  faint  and  mingled  with  the  democratic  scent  of 


30  DEMOCRACY 

perspiration — a.  sort  of  .corduroy  scent,  which  impreg- 
nated the  place. 

He  heard  the  rich,  deep  voice  congratulating  him 
upon  "the  fine  revolutionary  speech  you  made  at  the 
Magog,  Mr.  Destin.  Was  delighted  to  find  that  our 
younger  blood  is  being  true  to  its  destiny."  Felt  him- 
self wafted  away  on  the  silken  gown  of  the  Duchess 
from  person  to  person.  "This  is  Mr.  Destin,  the  hero 
of  the  'Magog.'  "  Shook  hands  with  men  and  women 
of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  until  he  found  himself  stung  to 
sudden  coldness  by  a  voice  with  something  hissing  in 
it — the  voice  he  had  heard  at  the  Magog. 

This,  it  seemed,  was  one  of  Her  Grace's  periodical 
"notions."  The  notion  of  making  the  hostile  sections 
of  the  Socialist  movement  known  to  one  another  and 
even  of  bringing  its  natural  foes  into  contact  with  the 
redcaps  of  revolution — "so  as  to  understand  one  an- 
other a  little  better,  Mr.  Courcy." 

For  it  was  Courcy  who  stood  slenderly  before  him, 
bowing  with  grave  irony.  "Now  I  will  leave  you  two 
enemies  to  settle  matters  between  you,"  said  the 
Duchess,  who  disappeared,  delighted  with  her  success 
in  bringing  about  one  of  her  impossible  situations. 

At  least  Destin  thought  it  impossible.  That  the  one- 
time Conservative  Prime  Minister  should  condescend 
to  speak  to  a  rebel  who  had  attacked  Society  at  his  own 
meeting  seemed,  to  put  it  mildly,  an  impossible  situa- 
tion.   Then  Courcy  began  to  speak. 

In  a  sentence  he  had  put  the  boy  at  his  ease.  It  was 
the  fatal  facility  which  he  had  seen  in  the  Duchess  and 
which  in  the  long  afterwards  he  learnt  to  know  and 
fear.  "You  know,  Mr.  Destin,  though  we  may  be  po- 
litical opponents"  (here  was  the  famous  Courcy  put- 
ting him  on  a  level  with  himself),  "still  we  can  differ 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    31 

I  hope  as  gentlemen.  Indeed  I  listened  with  much  in- 
terest to  your  Magog  speech — z.  very  happy  effort 
under  difficult  conditions  if  I  may  say  so — ^and  I  felt 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  lying  underneath  it.  No- 
body more  than  I  regretted  the  violence  used  at  the 
meeting."  (Courcy  was  quite  genuine  in  this  as 
Destin  saw  at  once.)  "Arguments  of  that  sort  ad- 
vance nothing.  But  you  and  I  cannot  expect  all  men 
to  have  the  same  philosophical  detachment,  which  is 
so  essential  where  questions  affecting  the  stability  of 
Society  are  concerned,  and  more  particularly  now  with 
the  strike  threats  in  the  air.  I  wish  we  had  more  of 
the  enthusiasm  of  youth  on  our  side — ^more  young  men 
like  yourself." 

Courcy  looked  at  him  keenly — ^fleetingly.  The  blue 
eyes  that  peered  blandly  at  him  through  the  delicately 
balanced  pince-nez,  looked  innocent.  They  might  be. 
But  Destin  was  conscious  of  a  searching  out— of  an 
analysis — of  a  weighing  in  the  balance  of  thought, 
which  left  him  uncomfortable — "as  though  he  had 
been  vivisected,"  he  said  afterwards. 

Destin  felt  the  impulse  to  respond  to  so  friendly  an 
overture.  To  be  grateful  for  so  much  understanding 
— for  so  much  that  convinced  and  flattered  him — for 
the  subtlest  flattery  in  the  world — that  of  the  man  of" 
the  world  for  the  young  man.  In  a  moment  he  would 
have  broken  into  one  of  his  customary  floods  of  elo- 
quence, like  the  talker  he  was,  in  which  he  would  have 
poured  out  his  heart  to  the  man  before  him,  when  he 
caught  that  look.  It  was  only  momentary.  But  it 
chilled  him  as  though  a  finger  of  ice  had  sealed  his  lips. 

That  voice  like  the  lowing  of  bulls  was  still  sound- 
ing through  the  room.     It  never  ceased. 

It  was  coming  nearer.  Now  it  was  close  behind  him. 


32  DEMOCRACY 

when  it  seemed  to  strike  him  between  the  shoulders. 
It  was  the  hand  of  the  speaker. 

He  found  himself  half  turned  round.  "I  am  going 
to  deprive  you  of  the  company  of  Mr.  Destin,  Courcy," 
boomed  the  voice. 

Courcy  had  never  been  spoken  to  like  that  before. 
But  everyone  knew  that,  in  his  own  words,  John  Belch, 
plain  honest  John  Belch,  talked  to  the  swells  "like  God 
Almighty  talks  to  a  blackbeetle."  Yet  even  Belch, 
with  all  the  assurance  that  was  already  making  him 
stand  out,  hesitated  a  little  before  the  bland  smile  of 
the  man  he  addressed. 

Even  whilst  he  wrung  his  hand,  Destin  felt  that 
Belch  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  Courcy.  "My  boy, 
you  must  be  a  chip  of  the  old  block.  I  believe  you  are 
a  bit  of  myself.  It  is  just  what  I  would  have  done  had 
I  been  in  your  place.  I'm  glad  you  made  Courcy  and 
Brink  and  all  that  lot  sit  up." 

He  was  speaking  at  Courcy,  who  however  by  now 
was  loping  his  way  through  the  crowd,  his  hands 
folded  behind  his  back,  peering  from  face  to  face,  see- 
ing nothing  and  everything. 

"Now  that  we've  got  a  party  in  Parliament,  I'll 
show  'em  what's  what.  We  want  more  scenes — more 
beardings  of  the  capitalist  monster  in  the  den  where 
he  has  wallowed,  warped  and  wiped  out"  (Belch  was 
famous  for  his  trilogies)  "all  that  is  best  in  human 
nature." 

Destin  was  looking  into  a  short,  square  face  with 
short,  square,  pugnacious  beard  that  curled  itself 
around  and  up  to  the  clear  blue  eyes  which  faced 
everything  with  assuredness.  But  it  was  the  mouth 
with  its  gleaming  rows  of  teeth,  "and  every  one  my 
own,  my  boy,"  as  their  owner  said,  which  held  him. 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION     33 

It  was  a  mouth  which  yawned  four-square  like  a  kit 
bag  at  a  world  waiting  to  be  enveloped.  The  voice 
matched  it.  It  came  booming  to  the  ear.  It  hazed  the 
mind  behind.  It  hazed  the  audience.  The  Voice  was 
the  man. 

Destin  was  impressed.  Impressed  by  the  tremen- 
dous earnestness  of  the  man ;  by  his  voice ;  by  the  hon- 
est cut  of  him  from  the  square  jowl  to  the  square, 
short  jacket.  The  demagogic  instinct  in  him  awak- 
ened responsively  to  that  of  Belch. 

He  was  being  hypnotised,  when  a  little,  petulant 
voice  near  him  intruded  itself. 

"But,  my  dear  Sir,  the  emotional  appeal  is  useless — 
it  is  the  intellectual  appeal  we  need.  Even  the  coming 
strike  will  be  useless  without  the  force  of  intellectual 
conviction  behind  it.  Let  us  teach  the  proletariat  what 
the  materialist  conception  of  history  means." 

"The  materialist  conception  of  history  be  damned  V 
eructated  Belch,  facing  round  to  the  frock-coated  fig- 
ure that  jerked  its  arms  convulsively  like  a  jumping- 
jack. 

The  little  eyes  of  the  man  glittered  aqueously  like  a 
rain  cloud  when  the  sun  is  sitting  behind  it.  Bowcher, 
for  all  his  respectability,  which  enveloped  him  like  a 
garment,  his  mannequinish  legs  and  arms  and  tubby 
body,  was  not  the  man  "to  take  it  lying  down,"  not 
even  from  John  Belch.  The  lion  head,  with  its  over- 
mastering forehead,  cut  off  at  the  top  into  a  plateau  of 
materialism,  fringed  incongruously  with  its  mutton- 
chop  whiskers,  all  showed  Bowcher  the  intellectual 
force  he  was  in  the  movement;  the  man,  as  Destin 
knew  later,  who  had  refused  a  seat  in  the  cabinet  and 
sacrificed  two  fortunes  for  the  sake  of  his  Socialist 
principles,  but  who  had  an  incurable  weakness  for  the 


34  DEMOCRACY 

aristocracy.  Bowcher,  "the  old  Guard,"  as  he  was 
known,  who  saw  a  menace  to  the  integrity  of  the  move- 
ment in  every  critic  with  whom  he  did  not  agree. 
Bowcher — witchfinder  and  impossibiHst. 

"The  materiahst  conception  of  history  be  damned  !'* 
repeated  Belch  in  a  voice  that  swept  the  room  in  a 
Jovian  blast. 

"Damn  it  by  all  means,"  interjected  a  young  man  in 
a  chessboard  suit,  who  had  been  passing  from  group 
to  group  in  the  room,  injecting  a  word  here  and  there, 
exasperating  virility  into  imbecility.  When  he  hovered 
on  the  fringe  of  a  group,  there  were  sudden  silences, 
followed  by  little  bursts  of  strained  laughter. 

No  gathering  of  revolution  was  complete  without 
Sydney  Damascene,  leader  of  the  Platonists,  an  ex- 
clusive union  of  exotic  Socialists,  whose  hair  of  shin- 
ing black,  parted  whitely  in  the  centre,  pale  fleshy  face, 
and  rainbow  suits,  spread  themselves  over  the  illus- 
trateds  and  plastered  the  imagination  of  the  man-in- 
the-street. 

"But  my  dear  Sir,  my  dear  Sir,  what  can  your  read- 
ing of  the  history  of  the  proletariat  of  the  last  half 
century  have  been  ?"  expostulated  Bowcher,  still  striv- 
ing after  politeness  and  addressing  himself  to  Belch. 
**you  must  know  the  emotional  appeal  has  never 
lasted.  It  is  the  head  to  which  we  have  to  appeal — 
not  the  heart." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  eye?"  said  Damascene. 

"I  appeal  to  what  I  understand  best,"  retorted  Belch, 
who  had  no  use  for  niceties  of  argument  and  ignoring 
Damascene,  whom  he  obviously  detested.  "I  appeal 
to  a  man's  feelings.  You  can  work  on  his  head  if  you 
like.  I  will  work  on  his  heart.  Economics  are  all  very 
well  in  their  place ;  that  is,  in  the  armchair.    When  you 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    35 

have  to  deal  with  human  beings  with  red  blood  in 
them,  you'll  find  your  economics  of  precious  little  use. 
You  can't  demonstrate  a  man's  feelings  by  the 
higher  mathematics,  even  though  you've  written  a 
text-book  on  the  differential  calculus  or  whatever  you 
call  it." 

Belch  stuck  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  jacket 
in  downright  fashion,  jutting  his  beard  pugnaciously 
at  his  enemy. 

This  reference  to  Bowcher's  more  or  less  forgotten 
mathematical  work,  written  soon  after  he  had  passed 
out  brilliantly  from  Oxford,  irritated  its  author  be- 
yond the  resources  of  civilisation. 

"I  don't  want  an  ex-dock  labourer  to  teach  me  his- 
tory at  any  rate,"  he  replied  tartly,  the  veins  that  inter- 
laced his  temples  swelling. 

Destin  was  astonished  to  see  that  the  famous  middle- 
class  revolutionist  had  sloughed  his  revolutionary  gar- 
ment and  relapsed  into  bourgeoiserie.  Hitherto  he  had 
regarded  Democracy  as  something  ideally  complete  in 
theory  and  practice.  Here  was  another  side  to  it,  so 
far  unsuspected.  He  began  to  find  that  Democracy 
came  in  many  guises. 

"You  blether  about  your  materialist  conception. 
What  does  it  mean  anyhow?"  bellowed  Belch,  his  eyes 
full  of  angry  lights. 

*Tt  means  that  a  man  is  made  by  his  physical  envi- 
ronment— take  yourself,  for  instance,"  said  Bowcher 
with  an  irony  that  was  lost  on  the  other. 

"But  doesn't  man  in  his  turn  make  his  environment? 
tell  me  that,"  said  Belch  argumentatively. 

"Which  came  first — the  hen  or  the  tgg?**  cackled 
Damascene  behind  Belch's  shoulder. 

Whilst  democratic  autocracy  was  fighting  its  battle 


36  DEMOCRACY 

in  a  babel  of  sound,  in  which  Destin  caught  .  .  . 
"lack  of  comprehension"  .  .  .  "the  heart  of  the 
people,"  and,  regrettable  to  say  .  .  .  "damned  Uni- 
versity professor;"  a  saurian  of  a  man,  whose  bent 
head  and  shoulders  carried  on  long,  corkscrew  legs, 
towered  over  everybody  else  in  the  room,  like  a  per- 
ambulating brain,  approached  the  group,  tap-tapping 
his  way  along  the  floor  with  his  stick,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  little  nondescript  woman,  who  led  him  much 
as  a  blind  man  is  led  by  his  dog. 

"Pity  the  blind !"  wailed  Damascene  under  his  breath 
as  they  drew  near. 

"Put  it  to  Mathman,"  shouted  Belch. 

The  loose,  shambling  figure  came  tapping  across  the 
polished  floor,  the  head,  furrowed  into  grey  hollows 
like  that  of  some  antedeluvian  animal,  sunk  massily 
between  the  hooped  shoulders,  one  sunken  eye  showing 
itself,  set  back  in  the  side  of  the  slab  of  head. 

"What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  said  a  high  voice  queru- 
lously. 

"Bowcher  here  says  the  way  to  get  at  the  people  is 
to  appeal  to  their  heads.  I  believe  in  going  for  a  man's 
heart.  Bowcher  says  the  heart  appeal  is  all  very  well 
for  women,  but  not  for  men.  Which  do  you  believe 
in,  Mathman?" 

The  little  woman  pulled  over  a  chair,  upon  which 
the  newcomer  subsided  in  sections  like  a  camel. 

"I  don't  believe  in  emotions  .  .  .  that  is,  in  women," 
said  the  great  man,  who  had  carved  for  himself  a  niche 
of  his  own  amongst  Europe's  metaphysicians. 

"The  emotional  appeal  is  perhaps  the  most  direct, 
where  Man  is  concerned.  So  far  as  woman  is  con- 
cerned," said  Mathman,  leaning  his  ponderous  head 
upon  the  hands  clasped  over  the  handle  of  his  stick,  as 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    37 

though  it  were  too  heavy  for  him,  "I  have  proved  in 
my  last  book — Woman  as  an  Animal/  and  proved 
conclusively,  that,  as  a  human  being,  she  has  no  exist- 
ence— therefore  for  us  she  has  no  concern  in  this 
question. 

"As  I  said,  so  far  as  Man,  that  is  the  Male,  is  con- 
cerned, the  emotional  appeal  is  perhaps  the  most  direct, 
but  for  purposes  of  conviction  is  useless.  Man  is  an 
Intellectual  Animal  in  which  alone  amongst  all  ani- 
mals, the  functions  of  brain  control  those  of  Mere 
Feeling"  (there  was  supreme  contempt  in  his  voice) — 
"therefore  the  intellectual  appeal  must  of  necessity  be 
the  only  one  where  Man,  the  Human  Being,  is  con- 
cerned." 

All  this  the  great  man  spoke  in  a  querulous  dogma, 
quite  indifferent  to  the  feelings  of  "his  wife,  who 
listened  with  an  impassive  face,  whilst  the  Duchess 
smiled  behind  her,  beaming  indulgently  upon  omnis- 
cience, delighted  with  the  situation  that  was  creating 
itself.  She  at  least  had  no  doubts  about  the  position 
of  woman. 

"There  you  go,  Mathman,  off  at  a  tangent  as  usual. 
Why  can't  you  give  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  ques- 
tion?" snorted  Belch.  "Anyhow,  confound  it!  aren't 
women  human  beings?"  he  added,  ignoring  the  pre- 
vious argument,  his  feelings  getting  the  better  of  him 
and  ever  ready  for  what  he  called  "a  scrap." 

"Woman  is  merely  an  animal,  useful  only  for  re- 
productive purposes,"  replied  Mathman  gravely.  "I 
have  proved  that  she  is  a  creature  controlled  only  by 
her  emotions.  That  places  her  outside  the  pale  of 
humanity,  save  as  an  accessory — a  useful  accessory  if 
you  will" — ^he  added  magnanimously,  "to  Man — the 
Creator,"     When  he  used  the  words   "Man"   and 


38  DEMOCRACY 

"Male,"  he  spoke  in  capitals,  and  was,  as  always,  scien- 
tifically blasphemous. 

The  Duchess  smiled,  for  she,  like  the  rest,  knew  that 
the  little  woman  who  stood  by  his  side  with  her  small 
hand  on  the  jutting  "kngle  of  shoulder,  ruled  the  gr^at 
man  in  the  tiniest  acts  of  his  life,  without  his  knowing 
it — a  tyranny  from  which  he  only  escaped  on  those 
occasions,  not  infrequent,  when  she  was  laid  tempo- 
rarily hors  de  combat  by  additions  to  an  already  ab- 
normal family,  when  he  had  his  bag  packed  by  her  and 
went  to  his  club  for  a  few  days,  only  returning  after 
the  event.  They  never  quarrelled.  I'hese  excursions 
from  the  feminist  rule  were  perfectly  understood 
between  them. 

"But,  dash  it  all !  Mathman,  that  is  not  good  Social- 
ism, and  you  are  a  member  of  the  party,"  said  the 
exasperated  Belch,  shaking  a  fist  under  the  indifferent 
nose  of  the  'anti-feminist.  "Socialism  means  the 
equality  of  the  sexes.  If  it  doesn't — what  in  thunder 
does  it  mean  ?"  Belch  by  this  time  had  quite  forgotten 
the  original  argument. 

"Anyhow  you  had  a  mother  yourself,"  he  added  as 
an  after-thought. 

"The  word  'mother'  is  much  misused,"  said  Math- 
man  calmly,  who  appeared  to  object  to  motherhood  on 
principle.  "Motherhood  is  merely  a  natural  function: 
there  is  no  sentiment  attaching  to  it.  Woman  is  the 
reproducing  animal — man  the  creative." 

Destin,  looking  up  from  a  battle  in  which  his  ideas 
of  democracy  were  changing  with  kaleidoscopic  rapid- 
ity, saw  a  man  standing  on  the  outskirts  of  a  triangular 
duel  in  which  by  now  Belcher  was  trying  to  bring  the 
argument  back  to  the  original  subject,  Mathman,  now 
mounted  upon  his  favourite  hobby,  actually  destroyed 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    39 

woman  as  an  entity,  and  Belch,  booming  through  the 
riot,  rode  headlong,  exasperated  and  puzzled,  at  both 
the  others. 

The  man  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  was  an  ordinary 
enough  London  labourer,  whose  sallow  cheeks  and 
broken  hands  showed  the  unskilled  man,  with  slack 
time  and  hard  rations.  He  had  been  clean-shaved  and 
washed,  his  .celluloid  collar  clasping  his  neck  poorly. 
His  black  moustache,  streaked  with  grey,  drooped  dis- 
consolately over  the  broken  mouth.  His  hair,  streaked 
like  his  moustache,  was  plastered  into  shining  neatness 
on  his  shrunken,  rhomboidal  head. 

Destines  eye  was  held  by  him — ^held  by  the  hard 
contempt — the  dumb  fierceness  of  his  look.  It  seemed 
that  then  and  only  then  had  he  seen  a  working  man  for 
the  first  time.  The  puzzled  eyes.  The  hands  hanging 
awkwardly  at  the  sides.  The  powerful  bobbed  boots. 
The  snowy  corduroys.  But  above  all,  the  air  of  reality 
and  horse-sense  of  the  man. 

The  others  seemed  like  playing  children — their 
polemical  subtlety  faded  out  in  that  atmosphere  of 
reality. 

The  most  insignificant  figure  in  'the  room,  uneasy 
and  fearful  in  his  surroundings,  he  had  a  curious  sig- 
nificance of  liis  own — 3,  general  fundamental  signifi- 
cance which  pervaded  the  place. 

Whilst  he  was  looking  at  him  and  forgetting  the 
battle  about  him,  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder  and 
found  the  Duchess  behind  him.  His  nostril  caught  a 
confusion  of  scents. 

*T  want  to  introduce  you  to  Miss  Vesta  Craven,  who 
is  simply  dying  to  know  you." 

She  moved  a  little  to  one  side,  a  hymeneal  smile  on 
her  face,  and  discovered  a  young  lady.    The  Duchess 


40  DEMOCRACY 

was  an  inveterate  match-maker,  who  was  always  man- 
ufacturing alliances  between  the  wonderful  young  men 
and  women  whom  she  called  her  "discoveries/* 

Indications  that  she  was  "simply  dying  to  know 
him"  were  not  very  apparent,  for  Miss  Craven  was 
singularly  collected.  There  was  something  cool  and 
virginal  about  her,  from  the  virginal  coolness  of  the 
nape  of  her  neck  to  the  simple  clinging  gown  of  poppy 
grey. 

Despite  her  reserve,  she  seemed  to  discharge  an  inti- 
mate and  electrical  atmosphere  which  permeated  him 
with  the  "White  Rose"  which  breathed  from  her  as  she 
moved.  His  eyes  passed  from  the  mass  of  light  brown 
hair  caught  up  carelessly  behind  the  shapely,  rather 
small  head,  to  the  eyes  of  clear  blue  which  looked  with 
such  frankness  into  his,  but  above  all  to  that  virginal 
neck,  so  irritatingly  cool,  as  it  ran  downwards  into  the 
mystery  of  the  girl-body.  He  found  something  of  the 
vestal  virgin  in  her. 

Destin  found  in  the  corner  where  the  Duchess  had 
piloted  them,  that  Miss  Craven  could  be  quite  human. 
He  was  always  making  little  discoveries  as  she  talked. 
It  seemed  she  was  a  young  woman  of  independent 
means  who  lived  in  a  Hampstead  flat,  in  her  own 
words,  as  "a  bachelor-girl."  As  their  conversation 
passed  from  anarchy  to  vegetarianism  and  even  "free- 
love,"  it  was  obvious  that  she  had  read  widely. 

She  had  broken  out  of  what  she  called  "an  upper 
middle-class  home"  and  "broken  into"  the  Socialist 
movement,  which  as  an  enthusiastic  convert  with 
Syndicalist  leanings  she  was  studying,  as  she  said 
herself,  from  the  inside,  "not  from  an  armchair,"  and 
was  looking  to  the  coming  strike  to  complete  her 
education. 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    41 

Destin  found  her  finely  unconventional,  and  was 
glad  to  accept  her  invitation  to  have  a  comradely  chat 
and  a  cup  of  tea  at  the  Hampstead  flat. 

The  voice  was  still  booming  through  the  room  like 
a  discharge  of  heavy  artillery,  punctuated  now  by  a 
shrill  staccato  of  Maxim-fire. 

"That  Mr.  Belch— I  think  he  is  delightful,"  said 
Miss  Craven,  for  a  moment,  enthusiastic.  .  .  .  "But 
there  is  that  MacClusky  woman — 'The  Stormy  Pe- 
trel,' you  know.  How  I  hate  her!"  She  shuddered 
slightly. 

The  staccato  was  that  of  "The  MacClusky,"  as  she 
was  known  in  the  movement — a  full-fleshed  woman 
with  a  Swami  aspect,  whose  grizzled  curls  covered  a 
solid-looking  head  like  that  of  a  benevolent  ram. 

"The  children,"  she  was  saying  piercingly.  "The 
children — what  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ?"  Of 
course  Professor  Mathman  doesn't  believe  I  am  a 
human  being,  having  no  feelings  and  no  brain,  being 
merely  a  reproductive  animal,  and  therefore  my  ques- 
tion, like  myself,  has  no  existence."  Her  voice  rose 
into  unbelievable  shrillness  as  she  looked  upon  that 
magnificent  male,  who  wilted  slightly  in  his  seat. 

The  original  battle  had  resolved  itself  into  one  be- 
tween Belch's  bass  and  Mrs.  MacClusky's  treble,  which 
shrilled  itself  above  the  diapason  of  sound  with  which 
the  room  hummed,  checkered  by  the  clatter  of  the  tea 
cups.  "What  about  the  children?  What  about  the 
Mothers?" 

Mrs.  MacClusky  never  forgot  that  she  had  managed 
to  produce  a  boy,  who  had  weighed  two  and  a  half 
pounds  at  birth  and  had  never  grown  up.  In  the  whole 
Socialist  movement  there  was  not  a  woman  more 
fanatical  and  honest  where  the  children  were  con- 


42  DEMOCRACY 

cerned,  or  more  unscrupulous  in  getting  her  way  about 
them.  There  was  no  trickery  or  cajolery  to  which  she 
would  not  unselfishly  descend  for  their  sakes,  whilst 
she  had  a  Celtic  exuberance  which  did  not  admit  oppo- 
sition. 

Her  hobby  was  education,  in  which  she  had  made 
herself  a  holy  terror  to  School  Boards  and  to  wardens 
of  colleges,  doctors,  school  teachers,  heads  of  govern- 
mental departments  and  the  various  pastors  and  mas- 
ters of  young  England,  not  even  excepting  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  seigniors,  over  whose  heads  she  held  a 
Damoclean  threat  of  getting  back  their  fat  endow- 
ments for  the  poor  scholars  for  whom  they  were  orig- 
inally intended,  shocking  them  at  her  dishonesty.  Her 
natural  enemy  was  Bowcher,  whose  views  upon  woman 
she  regarded  as  those  of  incipient  blackguardism  and 
brain-softening.  She  preferred,  she  said,  in  bland  in- 
sult, "an  honest  fool  like  Mathman,  who  said  what  he 
meant." 

Bowcher  in  the  discussion  had  had  his  face  bitten 
pretty  severely  by  this  terrible  woman  before  he  was 
taken  off  the  field  by  his  wife,  who,  it  was  reputed, 
had  been  originally  a  cook,  and  who  led  him  by  his 
cup  of  coffee. 

"Oh !  burst  all  metaphysics,"  said  Belch  in  an  uncon- 
trollable fit  of  anger.  "Let's  get  to  business.  Ask 
Graney  here  what  he  thinks  about  the  way  to  appeal  to 
the  working-man.  He  ought  to  know."  He  pointed 
to  the  man  in  the  white  corduroys  at  whom  Destin  had 
been  looking. 

Graney  flushed  sullenly  across  his  sallow  face,  look- 
ing more  incongruous  than  ever  in  his  surroundings. 
He  mumbled  something  about  "not  knowing  anything 
abaht  it — spouting  wasn't  his  business  anyhow." 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    43 

A  man  with  a  formidable  spread  of  shoulder  who 
had  been  steadily  sucking  at  a  briar,  the  heavy  bowl  of 
which  nestled  somewhere  within  his  short  grey  beard, 
and  who  had  been  peering  shaggily  out  from  a  welter 
of  wire  hair  at  Mathman  and  the  rest  during  the  alter- 
cation, took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  said  quietly 
to  Graney  with  a  strong  Scottish  accent — "Tell  them 
what  ye  ken,  Joe,  from  the  men's  side." 

Graney  looked  into  the  cairngorm  eyes  of  the 
speaker.  It  was  as  though  a  message  had  passed  be- 
tween them  from  which  he  took  confidence.  The  other 
had  put  his  pipe  back  and  was  puffing  steadily  away. 

"Orl  right,  Jim.  If  you  says  it — it's  orl  right  I 
suppose.  What  Jim  McGraw  says,  goes,"  he  added 
with  a  half  apologetic  smile,  turning  to  the  others. 
"Though  mind  you,  Jim  and  I  though  we  belong  to  the 
same  party,  don't  hexactly  see  heye  to  heye  halways 
on  tactics.    Some  of  us  want  to  get  on  a  bit  fawster/' 

"McGraw."  So  that  was  McGraw — the  McGraw. 
Destin  knew  all  about  him — ^he  was  the  best  known  of 
the  Socialist  chiefs  to  the-man-in-the-street,  who  was 
only  just  beginning  to  get  some  idea  of  the  gods  behind 
the  labour  machine.  That  was  McGraw,  super-dema- 
gogue, chairman  of  the  Independent  Socialist  Party, 
forming  the  left  wing  of  the  National  Workers'  Party, 
which  now  had  its  representatives  at  Westminster; 
the  man  who  had  pushed  trucks  as  a  boy  in  a  Scottish 
coal  mine — who,  a  self-educated  man,  had  left  a  trail 
of  rebellion  wherever  he  went — in  India,  Egypt,  South 
Africa.  As  Graney  said — "What  McGraw  said — 
went." 

"Well,  you  see  it's  like  this  'ere.  In  a  manner  of 
speaking  you  gents  are  orl  right  and  orl  wrong.  You 
don't  know  what  you're  a  torkin'  abaht   ...   no,  I 


44  DEMOCRACY 

don't  mean  that."  He  stuttered  and  stumbled,  finding 
articulation  as  he  went  on. 

"You  come  and  live  dahn  Mile  End  wye  and  you'll 
see  that  it  isn't  to  a  man's  'art  nor  likewise  to  his  'ed 
you  *ave  to  appeal,  but  to  his  stummick.  Mile  End  is 
one  big  stummick,  saving  her  Ladyship's  presence.  All 
questions  dahn  our  wye  are  stummick  questions.  There 
ain't  no  other.  Gor'  love  yer  innercence !  Me  and  my 
mates  'ave  listened  many  and  many  a  time  to  you  arm- 
chair gents — good  comrades  all — a  givin'  of  it  aht  and 
tying  yerselves  into  knots  about  us  working  men  and 
the  wye  to  do  it. 

"There's  only  one  wye  to  appeal  to  the  hanimile 
known  as  the  working-man,  and  that's  through  his 
stummick.  When  you've  filled  that,  then  you  can  go 
a  step  'igher  to  his  'art,  and  when  you've  torked  to 
wot  you  might  call  his  bloomin'  emotions,  then  you  can 
come  the  intellectual  over  'im.  But  the  stummick's 
first.  A  man  thinks  through  his  stummick  when  you 
come  to  look  at  it. 

"It  ain't  very  elegant  or  clawssy  maybe,  but  there's 
no  good  trying  to  fill  an  empty  'ed  before  you  fill  the 
empty  stummick  underneath  it.  It's  a  sort  of  boiler, 
you  know.  You  stoke  the  stummick  and  get  steam  up 
to  help  the  brain  turn  rahnd. 

"And  then  some  of  you  gents,  with  your  eddication, 
and  meaning  well  I  know,  imagine  that  Bill  Smith, 
working-man,  muck  shifter  and  beer  walloper,  is  wor- 
rying his  napper  abaht  wot  you  calls  problems.  I  don't 
suppose  as  'ow  I'm  any  worse  than  the  next — ^but  it 
took  me  ten  years  to  know  what  I  wanted  and  to  join 
my  first  Socialist  branch.  Ten  years,  gents.  When 
you've  got  a  donah  wot  'as  sold  you  up  thirteen  times 
in  ten  years,  putting  it  all  dahn  'er  f roat  into  'er  stum- 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    45 

mick — I  told  you  it  was  all  a  stummick  problem  dahn 
our  wye — leavin'  'er  old  man  to  do  his  day's  work 
when  he  can  get  it,  and  wash  and  dress  the  kids  before 
he  goes  aht  on  the  prowl,  it  isn't  'eds  and  'arts  that  will 
be  troubling  him,  but  filling  his  stummick  and  the  stum- 
micks  of  the  kids. 

"And  that's  me.  I've  'ad  to  pull  a  hole  in  my  belt 
donkey's  years  to  get  the  threehalf pence  a  week  for 
my  Independent  Socialist  branch — ^and  there  are  oth- 
ers like  me. 

"You  know  it's  easy  to  keep  going  in  the  limelight. 
Give  a  man  a  bellyful  of  handclapping,  a  big  meeting, 
and  the  band  playing  The  Red  Flag,'  and  it's  easy 
to  be  a  Socialist — but  dahn  in  Mile  End  it's  not  all  beer 
and  skittles  you  can  take  mine,  potterin'  arahnd  from 
dye  to  dye  expecting  every  moment  to  be  your  next." 

The  man  had  broken  off  once  or  twice  as  though 
unused  to  so  much  talking,  but  something  that  drove 
him  from  the  inside,  which  might  have  been  eagerness 
to  make  the  thing  plain,  and  might  have  been  exasper- 
ation, sent  him  on  again.  Now  he  had  stopped  once 
more  for  a  moment,  but  as  though  something  else  had 
occurred  to  him  which  had  to  be  said,  he  began  again : 

"Look  'ere — do  you  fink  the  thahsands  in  my  union 
would  be  coming  aht  on  the  cold  streets  in  a  week  or  so 
for  a  question  of  'art  or  brain?  Do  ye  fink  the  millions 
in  the  railway  unions  and  the  others  would  be  a-taking 
of  their  lives  in  their  'ands  for  a  question  of  hettiquette 
— or  the  miners  ?  No  fear.  They  want  more  for  their 
stummicks.  They  want  better  conditions  for  their 
wives  and  kiddies.  And  yet,  and  yet .  .  ."  he  broke  off 
in  wistful  doubt,  "there's  sentiment  in  it  too — senti- 
ment underneath  it  all. 

"If  our  men  come  aht  and  the  strike  tikes  plice,  every 


46  DEMOCRACY 

branch  leader — every  local  Secretary — will  have  senti- 
ment pulling  at  'im  as  well  as  stummick — and  maybe  a 
bit  of  ambition  too.  But  for  the  rank  and  file,  it  will 
be  a  stummick  question,  with  a  dash  of  sentiment.  All 
sentiment  comes  from  the  stummick.  Some  day  the 
working-man  will  let  'is  'art  rule  his  stummick  and 
some  day  perhaps  'is  'ed  'is  'art — then  let  the  employers 
look  aht.    But  it  all  starts  from  the  stummick. 

"Gor'  lumme !  when  I  'ear  you  gents  a  torkin'  I  fink 
I'll  go  off  my  rocker — ^but  you  mean  it  well — ^you  mean 
it  well.  Any'ow,  I  mean  it  well,  too,  but  don't  forget 
gents,  all  the  labour  question  is  a  stummick  question  in 
the  first  plice — and  arter  that  the  'art  and  'ed  if  you 
like.  Ask  Jim  McGraw  there — ^he  can  say  better  than 
me,  but  'e'U  tell  you  the  sime." 

The  man  stood  there  defiant,  but  abashed  at  his  own 
eloquence.  His  jaws  rasped  as  though  they  wanted 
oiling — were  not  used  to  doing  much  more  than  work- 
ing over  food  or  a  plug. 

Destin's  heart  went  out  to  the  man,  who  however, 
staggered  him  a  little  too.  He  had  always  thought  of 
the  soul  when  speaking  of  Democracy.  Now  he  found 
it  also  had  a  stomach.    It  was  a  cold  douche. 

Even  Belch  was  quiet  when  Graney  had  finished. 
Mathman  crouched  over  his  stick,  sunk  in  the  fogs  of 
intellect,  pondering  over  God  knows  what  intellec- 
tual problems  Graney  had  raised  in  the  hypertrophy 
of  his  mind.  Some  yards  away,  Bowcher  was  com- 
plaining to  two  or  three  friends  about  "that  man 
Belch." 

"The  Strike."  The  words  had  come  again  and  again 
to  Destin  as  he  moved  about  the  room,  leaving  an 
impression  of  something  imminent  and  overwhelming. 
"The  Strike." 


THE  CHILLINGTON  HOUSE  REUNION    47 

Of  course  he  had  seen  in  the  papers  and  skimmed 
over  retiring  paragraphs  about  trouble  brewing 
amongst  the  Transport  Workers.  The  papers  were 
always  full  of  that  kind  of  talk.  But  everyone  knew 
that  strikes  were  as  common  as  beer  bottles  and  broken 
as  easily.  To  the-man-in-the-street  the  word  signified 
nothing  beyond  "labour  agitators/'  "enemies  of  soci- 
ety," and,  occasionally,  higher  prices  for  coal  or  food. 
Sectional  strikes  were  the  ordinary  phenomena  of 
everyday  life — a.  nuisance,  transient,  something  that 
led  to  nothing.  Of  no  moment  to  the  middle-class 
man  anyhow. 

But  this  time  Destin  caught  something  from  Graney 
and  McGraw  as  they  spoke  together.  The  Scotsman 
talked  of  "two  and  a  half  millions  of  men  involved." 
'^Paralyse  the  transport  of  the  country  .  .  ."  "the 
meeting  in  the  Square  .  .  ."  "the  use  of  troops  .  .  ." 
"this  is  the  end  of  sectionalism  .  .  ."  and  other  things 
came  more  or  less  significantly  to  his  ears.  The  Strike 
was  in  the  air. 

As  Her  Grace's  guests  passed  down  the  broad  stair- 
way, he  heard  in  rumbling  basses,  punctuated  by 
shriller  treble — "The  Strike."  Down  into  the  broad 
sunlight  of  the  street  and  there  on  a  poster  of  the 
Evening  Owl  flamed: 

McGRAW'S 

LAST 

WORD. 


IV 


TRAFALGAR    SQUARE 

From  where  he  stood  on  the  plinth  of  the  Nelson  Mon- 
ument, facing  the  National  Gallery,  Destin's  eye  drank 
itself  full  of  colour — his  ear  of  sound. 

The  blare  of  brass  sprayed  itself  against  the  walls 
of  the  Northumberland  Avenue  hotels,  clumped  by  the 
detonations  of  the  big  drums  which  beat  themselves 
frantically  through  the  ruck  of  the  banners.  Blotches 
of  crimson  scattered  themselves  to  the  airs  of  the  June 
afternoon.  Masses  of  blue  and  green,  ornate  with 
gold,  burst  against  the  eye  above  the  sweating,  heaving* 
mass  of  men  and  women  that  shuffled  along  under 
them.  A  maelstrom  of  humanity  surged  around  three 
sides  of  the  platform,  the  bronze  lions  of  another  age 
crouching  grimly  as  they  watched  the  new  eruption. 

This  surging,  panting  mob  that  struggled  to  find  its 
place,  nebulous  as  it  was,  yet  had  its  individualities  and 
its  currents.  The  brilliant  blue  and  gold  banner  of  the 
Electricians,  with  the  lightning  playing  upon  the  silken 
sheet,  headed  a  small,  compact  body  of  men,  whose 
tense  faces  and  air  of  power  showed  the  concentrated 
alertness  of  the  players  with  death.  Behind,  flaunted 
the  blood-red  banners  of  the  Anarchist-Communists  of 
the  East  End,  headed  by  a  black  banner  with  the 
death's  head  and  crossbones  in  white  which  jerked 
itself  drunkenly  out  of  a  nondescript  welter  of  pale- 
faced  Slavs  and  Latins.  Here,  where  Pole  and  Rus- 
sian Jew  fraternised  with  the  Montmartre  worker,  the 

48 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  49 

European  continent  seemed  to  have  poured  itself  out 
from  its  back-blocks.  There  in  front,  holding  a  paste- 
board skeleton,  with  the  words  "I  am  King  Capital !" 
raised  above  it,  strode  a  fury  of  the  new  revolution, 
her  great  horse-tail  of  hair  knotted  loosely  behind  her, 
her  blouse  open  at  the  bosom.  Behind  her,  hobbled 
or  pushed  or  danced,  as  fancy  and  the  crowd  permitted, 
half  a  hundred  Jewesses — tailoresses — those  workers 
in  the  city  of  dreadful  night  with  their  sixteen-hour 
day  and  the  "team"  system  marked  on  their  eaten 
faces  and  anatomised  bosoms.  Even  the  graves  of  the 
city  were  giving  up  their  dead  to  the  Square  on  this 
afternoon  of  June. 

Here,  coming  in  from  the  Strand  to  the  "Tykes  o' 
the  Barn"  north-country  band,  walking  soberly,  shoul- 
dering their  way  easily  through  the  undersized  men 
about  them,  as  a  tramp-steamer  shoulders  her  way 
through  Channel  waters,  came  a  mass  of  clean-shaven 
giants,  crooked  and  twisted  as  became  delvers  in  earth, 
their  backs  hunched  from  the  coal  seam — their  faces 
washed  pink,  save  for  the  furrows  where  the  under- 
ground had  struck  itself.  Hefty  Novocastrian  and 
Lancashire  lad  marched  side  by  side  with  the  Yorkshire 
Tyke.  These,  the  children  of  the  underworld,  with 
the  awe  of  the  darkness  upon  them  and  a  great  faith 
in  their  eyes. 

A  fury  of  drum-beating,  and  up  Northumberland 
Avenue  from  the  Embankment  poured  butcher,  baker, 
and  candlestick-maker.  Lean,  shrewd  tailor;  match- 
box maker ;  and  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  sweated, 
clattered  along,  their  tail  intermingled  with  the  crest 
of  a  horde  of  London  dockers,  that  broke  itself  into 
them  as  a  following  wave  breaks  into  the  backwash 
of  another. 


50  DEMOCRACY 

These  last  caught  the  eye  of  Destin.  Desperation 
lurked  there — a  hollowed-cheek  look  which  showed  the 
unskilled  worker  with  the  long  night  shift,  the  odd- job 
look  of  the  hunger-line  man  outside  the  London  docks 
in  the  keenness  of  the  early  morning — the  men  who 
daily  bedded  with  starvation.  There  was  no  mistaking 
them. 

At  the  head  of  them  as  they  swept  around  the  base 
of  the  plinth,  staggering  under  the  motto  "United  we 
Stand,"  he  saw  Graney,  his  face  shrunk  on  the  task  of 
keeping  his  banner  aloft  amongst  its  peers.  He  saw  his 
hips  contracted  under  the  weight  and  noticed,  despite 
all  his  starved  look,  the  sinewy  shoulders  that  crouched 
themselves  effectively  to  their  work  as  a  man  who  is 
used  to  swinging  sacks  of  corn  and  coal  from  hold  to 
shore — to  relieve  the  laden  bellies  of  the  argosies  of 
the  ocean. 

As  the  banners  revolved  before  him  in  the  lens  of  a 
gigantic  prism ;  as  band  succeeded  band  and  the  shrill 
of  fife  cut  across  the  undercurrent  of  brass — the  eye 
and  ear  tired.  The  space  around  the  plinth  was  now 
packed  to  the  low  walls,  the  banners  ranging  themselves 
in  a  mosaic  of  crimson  and  gold  against  the  wall  under 
the  railings  before  the  National  Gallery.  At  the  back 
of  the  last  Union  had  poured  a  rag,  tag  and  bobtail  of 
human  refuse  scoured  from  the  streets  of  the  East 
End  and  from  the  Embankment  by  the  brush  of  the 
marchers,  who  poured  in  a  disorderly  mass  that  filled 
the  square  space,  overflowing  on  to  the  stone  railings 
and  the  steps  of  the  Gallery  itself.  It  was  chaos  in- 
carnate. 

Ajid  then  as  his  eye  ran,  tremulous  with  that  strange 
enthusiasm  for  massed  humanity  which  makes  the 
demagogue  what  he  is — as  his  heart  contracted  to  the 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  51 

"Marseillaise"  and  "The  Red  Flag"  and  the  tears 
welled  to  his  eyes  in  unreasoning  pity  and  love  for 
these  men  and  women  with  their  poor  clothes  and 
poorer  discipline,  but  in  whom  he  felt  the  overmaster- 
ing of  destiny — he  passed  to  those  clean,  well 
groomed,  well-caparisoned  men  in  blue  cloth  who  had 
ridden  at  the  head  of  each  block  of  the  procession,  had 
marshalled  them  along  the  sides,  had  cajoled  and 
pushed  and  held  them  along  the  courses  of  the  streets 
like  channels  that  are  the  guides  for  sewer  water. 

From  his  place  he  saw  the  tops  of  the  helmeted 
giants,  who,  in  deadly  even  positions,  had  bulwarked 
the  base  of  the  column.  He  saw,  a  few  hand  spans  out, 
a  line  that  divided  the  crowd  into  its  regulated  parts, 
and  then  another  and  yet  another,  as  lines  of  rocks  in 
a  breaking  sea.  He  saw  behind  the  stone  rails  the 
horsemen,  batoned,  booted  and  spurred,  waiting  for 
their  work,  and  knew  from  Belch  who  stood  next  to 
him,  that  every  alley- way  about  held  its  bellyful  of 
bluecoated  men  ready  at  the  moment  to  be  vomited 
over  and  into  the  mass  about  him. 

Hearing  Belch's  voice,  his  eye  had  run  to  those  on 
the  plinth. 

Standing  easily  near  him,  his  checked  suit  tightly 
buttoned  down  the  front,  was  Damascene,  his  monocle 
stuck  inexorably  in  an  eye  which  gleamed  like  a  light- 
house as  he  focussed  the  crowd  in  humorous  disdain. 
On  his  head,  a  broad  Italian  hat  of  black  velvet, 
straight-brimmed  and  sunken  crowned,  whilst  thrown 
gracefully  back  from  his  podgy  shoulders  sprang  a 
cloak  of  some  black  silken  material,  lined  in  crimson, 
that  came  to  the  hollow  of  his  knee,  splashing  the 
plinth.  The  platform  was  a  furnace  blast,  but  he  wore 
his  cloak  as  though  it  were  a  November  day. 


52  DEMOCRACY 

"They  smell  damn  dirty,"  he  said  to  anybody  who 
cared  to  listen,  and  threw  up  his  well-cut  nose  as  he 
sniffed  the  tainted  airs.  *Thew!  it's  devilish  hard 
work  being  a  democrat." 

Bowcher  was  there,  looking,  as  Damascene  said, 
"like  a  trout  in  a  lime  basket,"  his  little  bourgeois  fig- 
ure, top-hatted,  the  most  incongruous  thing  in  the 
square  on  that  Sunday  afternoon.  The  Duchess  was 
there  in  a  hat  from  Paris,  which  set  off  the  dusky  red 
of  her  hair  to  a  miracle,  very  much  the  grande  dame 
despite  her  democracy,  but  quite  at  her  ease  and  smiling 
in  friendly  response  to  the  cries,  which,  were  they  not 
so  friendly,  might  have  been  ironical,  that  greeted  her 
from  the  larynx  of  the  mob.  McGraw,  behind  the 
others,  looked  shaggily  at  a  notebook,  ignoring  the 
shouts  of  "Good  old  Jim!"  "McGraw  for  ever!"  that 
came  up  to  him.  There  was  a  sprinkling  of  hard- 
headed  hard-handed  Union  leaders,  workmanlike,  and 
heavy  with  responsibility. 

It  was  to  these  last  that  Destin  felt  himself  drawn. 
He  was  looking  at  them  and  thinking  how  ridiculous 
and  amateurish  the  middle-class  revolutionists  looked 
by  the  side  of  them,  when  a  gentle  voice  greeted  him. 

"Mr.  Destin.  I  thought  it  was."  And  he  found 
himself  looking  into  the  face  of  Miss  Craven,  who  in 
some  way  of  her  own  had  managed  to  climb  the  plinth 
and  edge  her  way  through  the  crowd  without  showing 
a  crease  in  her  white  muslin  costume.  She  looked 
more  virginal  than  ever.  With  a  splash  of  red  ribbon 
over  the  heart,  she  reminded  him  of  the  virgin  mar- 
tyrs. 

Her  smooth,  musical  speech  rippled  itself  indifferent 
to  the  scene  about  them,  but  he  forgot  her  quickly  as 
his  eye  ran  backwards  and  forwards  from  Disorder  to 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  53 

Order — from  the  inchoate  heaving  mob-mass  to  those 
blue  lines  that  dotted  themselves  in  inexorable  geom- 
etry across  the  ruck.  From  the  sweaty,  grimed  faces 
and  shrunken  bodies  to  the  well-cared,  well-set-up  men 
who,  with  its  crushing  deadweight,  had  developed  out 
of  the  collective  soul  the  thing  known  as  discipline — 
Discipline,  the  blinded  giant. 

As  he  looked,  he  wondered  why  the  authorities  let 
them  demonstrate.  He  wondered,  knowing  that  behind 
these  blue  coats  was  the  red  of  the  forces  of  the  higher 
discipline,  why  rebellion  was  allowed  to  foment  itself 
on  that  Sabbath  afternoon.    The  contrast  was  terrific. 

On  the  one  hand,  age-worn,  well-ordered  society, 
moving  smoothly  in  the  grooves  of  tradition,  with  its 
customs,  privileges,  and  bulwarks — on  the  other,  the 
heaving,  squattering  mass  of  democracy,  stretching 
itself  on  its  belly  like  an  animal  rising  from  the  gutter 
— rising  from  nothing  ...  to  what? 

A  voice  was  reaching  out  in  even  insistent  tones  from 
the  plinth — a  voice  with  a  timbre  that  percolated 
through  the  blank  wall  of  bodies  and  made  it  heard 
above  the  miasma  of  sound  that  rose  like  a  cloud  of 
flies  over  the  swarming  crowd. 

"The  spark  that  fired  the  train  ...  we  are  meeting 
here  to  protest  against  the  dismissal  of  Joe  Lanthorne 
whilst  off  duty  .  .  .  railway  tyranny  .  .  .  other  engine- 
drivers  came  out  .  .  .  men  of  all  grades  .  .  .  blackleg 
labour  .  .  .  dockers  refuse  to  handle  blackleg  goods 
.  .  .  miners  have  shown  splendid  solidarity  .  .  .  refuse 
to  mine  steam  coal  .  .  .  will  raise  the  question  of  rates 
for  'difficult  places.  .  .  .' " 

The  sentences  came  disjointedly  to  Destin,  who 
found  his  attention  rivetted  by  the  wiry,  fine-fibered 
figure,  diminutive    and    concentrated — by    the    face, 


54  DEMOCRACY 

ivory-pallid — ^the  short,  strong  nose — the  dark  eye- 
brows meeting  in  a  double  arch  over  the  dark,  deep- 
set  eyes — the  compact  head  with  its  smooth,  well- 
brushed  black  hair — the  boniness  of  cheekbone  and  jaw 
— ^and  a  terrible  mouth  that  met  like  the  jaws  of  a  trap. 

He  had  reason  to  look  at  Jacob  Steltham.  Steltham 
was  "the  man  with  the  policy" — something  that  he 
pursued,  as  he  pursued  everything — with  resistless, 
tireless  assiduity.  This  dour  Novocastrian  who  had 
drifted  into  the  labour  movement  nobody  knew  exactly 
how — about  whose  head  were  already  gathering  the 
fires  of  faction;  acclaimed  by  the  older  rebels  as  a 
traitor — ^by  the  nebulous  mass  of  Radical-Trades 
Unionists,  only  weaned  the  day  before  yesterday  from 
their  Liberal  mother,  as  "a  sane  man,"  "an  intellectual 
force,"  as  "the  coming  man,"  but  above  all  as  the 
Strong  Man  of  the  movement.  Through  praise  and 
blame,  Steltham  held  evenly  on  his  way,  shearing 
through  everything  with  that  nose  and  jaw  under  the 
drive  of  ambition  he  had  got  from  his  Scottish  mother. 
A  formidable  little  man,  Destin  thought.  But  he  was 
speaking.  .  .  . 

"Now,  above  all  times,  we  want  strong  men  at  the 
helm  of  the  Unions.  With  the  new  Triple  Alliance  of 
the  Railwaymen,  Miners,  and  Dockers,  my  friends,  we 
are  playing  with  a  powerful  machine — ^but  a  machine 
of  extreme  delicacy,  which  needs  the  nicest  handling." 
He  paused  as  though  to  feel  out  what  lay  behind  the 
silence  down  there,  licking  his  lips  the  while. 

Destin  felt  that  silence.  It  was  not  the  impassive 
silence  of  the  Magog  meeting,  but  a  vibrant,  expectant 
silence,  as  of  an  animal  about  to  spring.  He  at  least 
could  not  read  it. 

Apparently  satisfied,  the  speaker  went  on  with  a  sug- 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  55 

gestion  of  superiority  in  his  voice.  .  .  .  "Those  of  us 
who  are  in  a  position  to  judge  have  reached  the  con- 
clusion that  we  must  exhaust  every  method  of  negotia- 
tion with  the  Government,  my  friends,  before  we  fall 
back  on  the  double-edged  sword  of  the  strike. ,  .  .'* 

"Humbug!" 

The  single  word  cut  like  the  swing  of  a  sword  across 
the  silence  of  the  meeting.  It  did  not  come  from  the 
crowd,  but  from  the  plinth  itself. 

Destin  saw  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  a  face  that 
stamped  itself  for  ever  on  the  retina  of  his  mind. 
Never  again  did  he  forget  those  steely  eyes,  fierce  and 
fanatic,  that  burned  in  cold  fire  on  the  speaker. 

The  great  slant  of  man  half  sat,  half  leant,  against 
one  of  the  corner  lions — 3.  pillar  of  fire  and  whipcord. 

"Humbug!" 

In  a  moment  the  crowd  had  found  voice.  It  came 
huskily  at  first,  in  a  hoarse  rumble  like  the  grind  of 
water  on  a  shallow  beach,  then  lifted,  until  ten  thou- 
sand throats  were  screaming  incoherently  in  one  vast 
larynx.  A  faint  murmur  of  protest  was  cut  down  and 
trampled  out.  The  cries  came  from  the  dockers  and 
the  unskilled  sections,  the  Miners,  for  the  most  part, 
holding  themselves  silent,  whilst  the  battalions  of  the 
railwaymen  stood  stolidly  like  soldiers  under  discipline. 

The  chairman  knitted  his  brows  slightly,  smiled  a 
queer  little  smile,  and  finished  quickly. 

"Creegan  means  business,"  said  Belch  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  to  the  man  next  him.  "He's  going  .  .  ."  but 
the  rest  of  his  words  were  lost  in  a  whirlwind  of  cheer- 
ing that  whipped  upwards  in  screaming  spirals  to 
frighten  the  pigeons  on  St.  Martin's  Church. 

Destin  could  not  understand  it.  Standing  in  the 
clear  space  on  the  sloping  plinth  was  a  boy — ^he  might 


56  DEMOCRACY 

have  been  seventeen,  or  he  might  have  been  twenty- 
five.  The  sun  shone  upon  a  pale,  rather  freckled  face, 
the  chief  features  in  which  were  a  snub  cherubic  nose 
and  a  big,  good-humoured,  rather  loose  mouth  which 
expanded  in  an  appreciative  grin  as  the  cheers  met  him. 

"Give  it  'em,  Wildish !  Good  old  Hectoi !  Bravo 
boy !"  The  cries  rose  here  and  there  from  the  crowd, 
and  it  was  noticeable  that  all  sections  joined  in.  Even 
the  stolid  railwaymen  were  shouting. 

"Gag  the  Boy,  for  God's  sake !"  said  Damascene  in 
a  whisper  of  tragedy.  "He  never  opens  his  mouth 
but  he  puts  his  foot  in  it — and  there's  plenty  of  room 
for  it  too !" 

The  tweeded  figure  was  jerking  itself  about  on  the 
platform,  exchanging  friendly  badinage  with  this  man, 
telling  a  story,  calling  out  to  some  interrupter  by  his 
Christian  name,  throwing  a  word  over  his  shoulder  to 
those  behind  him  on  the  plinth ;  and  all  this  in  a  mega- 
phone of  a  voice  which  rivalled  Belch's  own. 

There  was  a  boyish  grin  on  his  face  as  he  trounced 
with  all  the  splendid  irresponsibility  of  youth  the 
Government,  from  the  Prime  Minister  downwards. 
The  reporters  on  the  plinth  were  busy  scribbling,  for 
young  Hector  Wildish,  the  enfant  terrible  of  the 
movement,  was  known  in  Fleet  Street  as  "good  copy," 
from  the  time  when  twelve  months  before  he  had  set 
Britain  agog  by  defeating  a  Cabinet  Minister  in  his 
own  pet  constituency  as  Labour  candidate,  winning  the 
seat.  He  was  known  to  his  fellow  M.P.'s  in  the  Na- 
tional Workers'  Party  as  "the  young  man  in  a  hurry." 

Every  hit  was  punctuated  by  a  roar  of  approval. 
Laughter,  jeers,  howls,  swept  across  the  face  of  the 
audience  which  was  now  galvanised  into  life.  He  was 
for  hard-hitting  and  no  quarter.    Time  enough  to  talk 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  57 

about  negotiations  when  the  other  fellows  came  to 
their  senses.  Sober  men  wedded  to  political  action 
found  themselves  against  their  will  cheering  the  florid 
periods  of  the  speaker,  who  had  the  resistlessness  of 
youth  itself.  His  fair  brown  hair.  His  square  freckled 
face.  His  slender  boyish  figure.  Everyone  loved 
Hector  Wildish.  Even  Steltham  could  not  help  smil- 
ing a  little  behind  the  mask  of  his  face  every  now  and 
then  at  some  pungent  sally. 

He  finished  as  he  had  begun,  in  a  storm  of  applause, 
whilst  the  crowd  struck  up — "For  he's  a  jolly  good 
fellow  \"  singing  it  like  a  dirge. 

"Look  at  Steltham's  face,"  said  Damascene.  "He's 
like  a  cobra  with  the  fangs  out." 

The  square  was  sonorous.  The  cheers  had  died 
away  into  jeers  which  rose  and  enveloped  the  thin 
stereotyped  applause  that  greeted  the  heavy  jowled, 
be-whiskered  man  who  stood  there  blinking  owlishly 
in  the  sunshine,  his  hands  sunk  deep  in  his  crosspockets. 

There  was  a  vast  self-satisfaction  about  Tom 
Manby.  He  was  satisfied  with  the  crowd,  with  him- 
self, with  the  Government.  The  hoots,  which  Destin 
noticed  came  only  from  a  small  section  of  the  crowd, 
afifected  him  no  more  than  the  one-eyed  Nelson  which 
stood  high  above  him.  He  took  them,  Destin  heard 
him  say  to  Steltham,  "as  the  crackling  of  thorns  under 
a  pot." 

Steltham  eyed  him  unpleasantly.  There  was  an  air 
of  Sabbath  calm  about  him  which  was  exasperating — 
the  air  of  the  conventicle  clung  to  him. 

He  talked  on  in  a  broad  voice,  steady  and  even.  "My 
friends,  I  was  a-thinking  as  I  came  here  this  Sabbath 
afternoon,  that  on  this  day  of  rest  we  should  think  of 
the  counsels  of  peace.    As  a  Liberal  of  thirty  years' 


58  DEMOCRACY 

standing — same  as  me  feyther  afore  me — I  believe 
t'Liberal  Government  stands  for  righteousness  if  we 
will  but  give  'em  time."  ("Give  'em  ten  years  in 
chokey !"  came  a  bass  from  the  crowd,  with  a  ripple  of 
laughter.    "That's  wot  they  want.") 

"The  gentleman  *oo  'as  just  spoken  seems  to  know 
all  about  it,"  said  Manby,  who  had  a  certain  stolid 
humour  of  his  own. 

"As  I  was  a  sayin',  give  'em  time.  As  a  Yorkshire 
miner,  'oo  'as  worked  his  way  oop  from  t'pit,  I  know, 
same  as  my  fellow  miners,  that  we  have  got  much 
from  Liberal  Governments."  ("What's  the  matter 
with  Independent  Labour  Representation?  Why 
aren't  you  man  enough  to  resign  your  seat?  Go  back 
to  your  friends  the  Liberals !"  said  a  little  man  imme- 
diately under  him. ) 

"That's  all  right,  my  lad.  Let  us  be  peaceful  in  our 
strength.  What  does  t'owd  Book  say?"  ("Never 
mind  the  old  Book,  let's  have  the  revised  version!" 
came  the  ironic  bass  again.) 

"T'owd  Book  is  t'owd  Book,"  said  Manby,  in  the 
manner  of  a  man  stating  an  unanswerable  proposition, 
and  showing  a  tendency  to  wander  from  the  subject. 
"It  isn't  because  we  sit  outside  the  Government  ranks 
that  we're  alius  to  be  finding  fault " 

The  rest  of  Manby 's  speech  was  inaudible,  the  jeer- 
ing being  incessant  and  suffocating.  But  through  it 
all,  he  held  his  way,  his  mouth  opening  and  closing 
like  an  automaton.  Damascene  was  viewing  him  de- 
lightedly as  though  he  were  a  prehistoric  animal. 

Speaker  succeeded  speaker,  but  what  Destin  noticed 
was  a  steadily  rising  stream  of  criticism  directed  at  the 
Parliamentary  Party,  dammed  back  only  here  and 
there  by  a  pro-Parliamentarian,  who  was  almost  in- 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  59 

variably  one  of  the  older  men.  The  great  mass  of  the 
people,  however,  stood  there  stolidly  enough,  not  ac- 
tively resenting  the  critics,  but  occasionally  raising  a 
low  growl  of  protest  and  an  appeal  for  fair  play. 

To  add  to  the  confusion,  there  were  cheers  and 
counter-cheers  coming  from  the  other  sides  of  the 
plinth,  and  in  an  excursion  round  the  column  he  no- 
ticed that  the  blocks  of  speakers  collected  there  were 
of  the  younger  Wildish  type.  Even  in  Trafalgar 
Square  Democracy  showed  a  tendency  to  divide  itself 
into  camps.  It  hurt  him  vaguely,  taking  the  sunlight 
from  the  square  and  fading  the  colours  on  the  banners. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  excursions  that  Destin  got 
his  chance.  Steltham  and  Damascene  were  talking 
closely,  Steltham  looking  from  his  watch  to  the  clock 
on  St.  Martin's  Church  and  back.  "But  whom  can  I 
put  on  ?"  he  heard  him  say  to  the  other.  "Jones  hasn't 
turned  up,  and  there  are  only  Quest  and  Creegan — 
and  we  don*t  want  the  Syndicalist  to  have  the  platform 
for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  His  men  have  had  a 
pretty  good  innings  on  the  other  two  platforms.  As  it 
is,  he  said  he  would  speak  last  or  nowhere.  I  was 
counting  on  you  to  keep  them  amused  for  twenty  min- 
utes at  least.  Are  you  certain  you  can*t  raise  a 
canter  ?" 

"I'm  as  dry  as  Manby's  theology,"  Damascene  said. 
"My  voice  is  like  that  of  conscience — still  and  small. 
And  you  don't  know  the  sort  of  direct  action  devil  you 
might  raise  if  you  put  me  on.  None  of  you  will  take 
my  Syndicalism  any  more  seriously  than  my  Platonics. 
I'm'  worse  than  Creegan  if  you  and  he  would  only  be- 
lieve it."  He  searched  the  plinth  until  his  eye  met 
Destin. 

"There's  your  man,"  he  said.    "He  can  talk  like  the 


60  DEMOCRACY 

archangel  Gabriel  in  the  'D.T's/  He's  safe  enough,  if 
that's  what  you  want — doesn't  know  a  political  from  a 
direct  actionist,  or  the  devil  from  either.  He's  the  man 
that  raised  hell  at  the  'Magog,'  and  he's  been  spouting 
a  lot  since.  Besides  there's  nobody  else — there's  not  a 
^ood  political  left  on  either  of  the  other  two  platforms. 
Ask  him." 

"But  he's  not  on  the  list  of  speakers,"  protested 
Steltham. 

"Oh !  that  doesn't  matter — ^you  can  say  he  took  my 
place  to  represent  the  Platonists.  I'll  enroll  him  after 
the  meeting."     He  waved  his  hand  airily. 

Destin  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  head.  He  tried  to 
look  indifferent  as  Steltham  came  to  him. 

"Could  you  go  on  after  the  present  speaker — say 
for  ten  minutes  or  so?" 

Destin  heard  himself  say  —  "Yes,  he  thought  he 
could." 

He  looked  around  him  for  inspiration,  and  as  his 
eye  ran  to  the  upturned  faces,  like  the  faces  of  de- 
votees at  a  sacrifice,  he  felt  afraid.  What  could  he 
say?  It  was  the  Magog  over  again — ^but  worse.  He 
had  a  wild  idea  of  borrowing  a  pencil  and  jotting 
down  a  few  notes.  But  he  knew  that  was  too  late, 
and  he  couldn't  speak  from  notes  anyhow.  This  was 
his  chance  to  make  good! 

Supposing  he  blundered.  After  all,  he  knew  there 
were  a  dozen  shoals  which  might  wreck  him  in  the 
complexity  of  the  movement.  Manby's  speech  had 
shown  him  that,  apart  from  the  little  he  had  learnt 
himself  in  a  few  weeks.  What  could  he  say?  It 
seemed  that  the  speakers  who  had  gone  before  had 
covered  the  ground. 

He  watched  the  shadows  creep  downwards  on  the 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  61 

face  of  St.  Martin's  Church,  like  giant  fingers.  "The 
writing  on  the  walL"  It.  rushed  to  him.  This  was 
the  writing  on  the  wall — like  the  writing  in  the  book 
of  Daniel  which  Nebuchadnezzar  saw.  This  was  the 
sign  of  the  times.    "The  writing  on  the  wall." 

His  brain  began  to  work.  Tumultuously  it  ran  un- 
til the  dynamos  of  his  mind  were  stored.  "The  writ- 
ing on  the  wall." 

But  how  should  he  finish?  In  his  speeches  of  the 
previous  months,  he  had  learned  the  value  of  a  perora- 
tion.   What  should  his  peroration  be? 

In  the  effort  to  work  this  out,  he  saw  that  the  man 
before  him  had  stopped  to  a  splutter  of  applause.  He 
saw  Steltham  walk  to  the  front,  and  a  pressure  lay 
on  his  heart.  He  could  hear  the  voice — "Mr.  Destin, 
the  man  who  threw  down  the  gauntlet  at  the  Magog 
meeting." 

The  voice  was  coming  remotely.  He  moved  for- 
ward a  step  or  two  on  the  sloping  plinth  and  feared 
that  he  would  slip  down  on  to  the  spiked  helmets  of 
the  policemen  below.  He  stood  there  for  a  moment 
in  silence.  Not  a  cry  came  to  him.  His  thoughts 
had  taken  wing.    He  was  spellbound. 

He  hung  there  swaying  slightly,  when  a  voice  came 
from  underneath — a  Cockney  voice — "Good  old  Des- 
tin!"   It  was  Graney. 

There  was  a  spatter  of  cries,  then  it  gathered  into 
a  flying  spume,  and  then  came  the  surge,  a  crash,  and 
the  silence  had  fallen  again. 

He  was  still  standing  there  trying  to  think.  His 
heart  was  beating  ^to  choke  him.  There  was  some- 
thing surging — ^boiling  within  him. 

"Friends  and  Comrades  .  .  . "  he  hung  in  the  eye 
of  the  crowd  for  a  moment.     "Friends  and  Com- 


62  DEMOCRACY 

rades  .  .  ."  the  words  were  coming  from  someone 
else's  lips.  A  sentence  .  .  .  then  a  stop  .  .  .  an- 
other ...  he  was  trying  to  think — of  what  was  it 
he  was  trying  to  think?  This  was  his  chance — this 
was  his  chance. 

And  then,  as  at  the  Magog,  it  came  from  him. 
First  a  bubble  or  two — then  a  splutter — then  a  full- 
throated  emission. 

"The  writing  on  the  wall."  His  voice  was  gather- 
ing weight  and  volume.  It  was  rising.  He  forgot  to 
think,  and  thought  came  unbidden — tumultuous,  preg- 
nant, fruitful  thought. 

"The  writing  on  the  wall."  This  meeting,  like  that 
other  at  the  Magog,  was  the  writing  on  the  wall.  The 
moving  finger  of  God  Almighty.  The  Hand  that 
showed  the  way  to  the  new  Democracy.  The  uprising 
of  the  proletariat — the  doom  of  capitalism.  The 
resurrection  of  the  dead.  The  men,  the  women  and 
the  children,  murdered  and  crippled  on  the  battlefields 
of  labour  in  the  past,  were  pouring  from  their  graves 
whilst  the  Hand  wrote  above  them.  In  the  Hand  they 
saw  the  sign  of  the  times  to  come — of  the  resistless 
march  of  those  who  had  been  dead — who  were  stag- 
gering from  the  graves  of  Capitalism  to  the  brighter 
light  of  the  kingdom  of  Socialism  above  them. 

He  could  not  remember  afterwards  what  he  said. 
He  was  only  conscious  that  from  the  mass  before  him 
there  came  the  answering  rumble  of  interjection.  It 
was  like  the  prayer  meetings  in  the  old  Methodist 
church  in  Ireland.  It  was  the  awakening  of  the  spirit 
— 3.  revival. 

And  when  he  finished,  the  rumble  had  risen  to  a 
great  volume  of  sound  which  ran  from  the  base  of 
the  plinth  outwards  to  the  furthest  edge  of  the  sea 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  63 

of  faces.  It  gathered  again  on  the  outside  and  swept 
inwards  to  him — and  he  felt  stealing  through  him  the 
message  of  mind  to  mind — these  men  and  women  be- 
low him  who  poured  into  him  the  message  of  hope 
and  love  and  prophecy  he  had  given  out — gave  it  back 
ten  thousand  fold,  and  when  he  had  stepped  to  his 
place  behind,  he  knew,  despite  all  his  altruism — all  his 
love  for  those  people  below — ^that  he,  Denis  Destin, 
had  made  good.  He  put  the  thought  from  him  as 
unworthy,  but  still  it  came  back  at  him  again  and 
again.  The  thunder  of  the  cheers  was  the  chant  of 
his  success.    He  was  a  leader  of  Democracy. 

Bringing  his  mind  back,  Destin  heard  the  strong 
even  tones  of  a  short,  massive-looking  man,  who,  had 
he  not  spoken  good  English,  might  have  been  a  Ger- 
man. 

He  was  pouring  a  stream  of  derision  upon  Manby 
and  what  he  called  his  "Lib-Labism."  In  particular, 
he  sneered  at  his  teetotal  chapelism,  saying  that  "the 
workers  had  had  enough  of  the  pulpit  in  the  past," 
something  that  the  miners  and  the  railwaymen  re- 
ceived silently.  "When  the  Workers'  Party  took  over 
the  miners  it  hardly  bargained  to  take  over  the  relics 
of  Liberalism  and  its  economics  too,"  he  went  on. 

All  this  left  Destin  puzzled.  Why  should  the 
Workers'  Party  be  attacked  at  what  was  a  joint  dem- 
onstration of  all  Socialist  and  Labour  bodies?  He 
thought  that  Labour  was  a  solid  whole.  But  the  audi- 
ence seemed  to  understand  it,  and  already  recrimina- 
tions were  being  exchanged  in  the  heart  of  the  crowd, 
whilst  the  police  grinned  stolidly. 

Now,  as  though  something  fermented  in  him,  he 
was  urging  the  workers  to  become  something  he  called 
"class-conscious,"  and  to  join  the  Social  Democratic 


64  DEMOCRACY 

Union,  which  it  seemed  was  the  original  and  only 
genuine  class-conscious  party.  He  spoke  much  of  the 
"class  war,"  and  every  now  and  then  plunged  into  a 
churn  of  economics,  which  Destin  could  see  left  the 
crowd  puzzled  and  a  little  irritated. 

This  man,  Quest,  Destin  found  afterwards,  had  been 
a  porter  in  a  London  jute  warehouse,  and  had  taught 
himself  German  and  French  in  his  spare  time.  He 
was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  English  Socialism  and  was 
a  fervent  Marxian,  seeing  in  Karl  Marx  the  new  gos- 
pel which,  through  the  intellectual  process,  should  save 
the  workers  of  the  world.  With  his  brown,  doggy 
eyes  and  heavy,  drooping  moustache,  Destin  thought 
of  him  as  a  faithful  mastiff,  but  a  mastiff  that  had 
learned  its  first  lessons  so  well  that  it  found  itself  un- 
able to  learn  others.  A  brilliant  intellectual,  the  one- 
time porter  had  so  grown  away  from  his  fellows  of  an 
earlier  day  that  be  failed  to  understand  them,  and 
they  him,  though  they  loved  him  too  in  a  curious 
puzzled  fashion  as  Destin  saw. 

Steltham's  face  had  been  growing  heavier  as  he 
glanced  from  face  to  face  on  the  platform  searching 
for  something.  His  own  men  had  failed  badly.  But 
Quest's  speech,  which  had  begun  so  well  and  had 
ended  in  such  an  intellectual  fog,  appeared  to  reassure 
him.  However,  as  his  eye  caught  Creegan,  who  was 
to  be  the  last  speaker,  his  brow  fell  again.  The  minute 
hand  of  the  clock  on  the  church  was  climbing  up 
towards  the  XII,  whilst  the  hour  hand  almost  rested 
on  the  V,  the  time  of  grace  allowed  by  the  police  for 
the  meeting. 

He  stepped  forward  and  touched  another  speaker 
on  the  shoulder,  one  of  the  miners'  leaders,  and  mo- 
tioned him  to  the  centre  of  the  plinth.    In  a  moment, 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  65 

"Creegan !  Creegan !"  was  being  cried  from  the  people. 
It  grew  as  the  man  stepped  forward,  vainly  trying  to 
make  himself  heard.  Steltham  looked  about  him,  then 
at  the  crowd,  and  then  at  the  man.  He  stepped  to 
his  side  and  said  something  in  his  ear.  The  man  threw 
up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  of  acquiescence  and  went 
back. 

Creegan  was  moving  nervously  from  foot  to  foot. 
His  eyes  ranged  the  crowd  ceaselessly.  The  strong, 
straight  nose,  pointed  now  here,  now  there,  as  though 
feeling  for  something.  The  steel-grey  hair  was  parted 
straightly  and  starkly  over  the  hard,  clean  freshness 
of  his  face.  But  the  face,  though  that  of  a  young 
man,  was  heavily  furrowed,  whilst  a  scar  ran  lividly 
from  ear  to  cheekbone. 

As  his  name  was  called  by  the  chairman,  who,  Des- 
tin  thought,  waved  to  him  peremptorily,  the  tall  figure 
lurched  forward  to  the  centre  of  the  sloping  stone. 
He  stood  there  for  a  moment,  one  hand  straddling  his 
hip,  his  feet  close  together,  his  frame  drawn  tautly  up. 
The  nervousness  of  the  instant  before  had  gone.  The 
man  was  to  Destin  a  finely  tempered  piece  of  steel — 
grey-blue  and  keen — a  sort  of  lightning  conductor. 

For  all  his  furrows,  Brian  Creegan  looked  more  of 
the  boy  even  than  Wildish.  But  he  might  as  easily 
have  been  thirty  or  forty. 

There  was  an  air  of  intensity — something  brooding 
and  eroding  about  him.  Destin  thought  he  looked  the 
most  formidable  object  on  the  plinth,  where  every  eye 
was  watching  him.  Damascene  alone  keeping  his  ha- 
bitual grin. 

The  confusion  of  sound  that  had  followed  the  last 
speaker  dropped  at  once  as  he  stood  there  starkly, 
brooding  like  a  Titan  over  the  crowd. 


66  DEMOCRACY 

Then  he  spoke.  Destin  was  disappointed,  for  the 
voice  was  harsh.    It  grated  to  the  mind. 

"What  are  we  here  for?"  he  opened  uncompromis- 
ingly. "Are  we  here  to  discuss  the  merits  of  the 
Workers'  Party,  or  are  we  here  to  do  something? 
Which  is  it  V*  He  folded  his  arms  as  he  looked  hardly, 
almost  disdainfully,  at  the  crowd  beneath,  which  now 
had  strained  itself  into  a  hard  attention. 

"Put  it  to  yourselves  as  human  beings.  Never  mind 
the  labour  leaders.  Don't  mind  me,  Brian  Creegan. 
Use  your  own  brains,  if  you've  got  any. 

"Listen."  The  roll  of  the  brogue  came  into  the 
voice  as  it  went  on.  "When  I  was  a  little  gossoon 
running  about  the  streets  of  Dublin,  I  hadn't  a  shoe 
to  me  foot.  I  often  wanted  a  meal.  Many's  the  time 
I  saw  me  mother  cry  in'  for  the  want  of  a  bit  to  put 
in  our  mouths.  That  was  more  years  ago  than  I  care 
to  think.  Last  week  I  went  to  Dublin.  In  the  streets 
of  the  city  I  saw  other  little  Brian  Creegans,  running 
about  barefoot  and  hungry.    What  has  changed? 

"Listen  again.  Is  there  a  city  in  the  kingdom  which 
hasn't  its  thousands  out  of  work?  Is  there  a  pave- 
ment without  a  poor  lost  girl?  Is  there  a  city  in 
Christendom  where  the  voiceless  cry  of  the  starving 
doesn't  go  up  day  and  night  to  the  throne  of  God 
asking  blindly — *why  is  it  ?'  " 

His  voice  took  a  fuller,  deeper  tone. 

"One  hundred  years  ago  ye  formed  your  Unions. 
You've  been  working  and  agitating  and  organising 
ever  since.  You've  spent  millions  of  pounds,  each 
pound  drawn  from  the  sighs  of  the  worker — sweated 
blood-money.  You've  voted  backwards  and  forwards 
until  you  are  crosseyed.  You've  sent  back  Parliament 
after  Parliament,  and  you've  thrown  your  ear  wide 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  67 

to  the  spell-binding  at  the  General  Elections,  until 
they  put  the  comether  on  ye. 

"You've  gone  cap  in  hand  to  the  master — ^and  what 
have  ye  got?  You  asked  for  bread  and  he  gev  ye  a 
stone. 

"In  God's  name,  what  does  it  mean?  You  asked 
for  bread  and  you  got  bullets.  You  asked  for  warm 
mercy  and  ye  got  the  cold  steel." 

The  crowd  seemed  to  Destin  to  be  swaying  in  the 
sunlight  He  saw  a  red-headed  police  inspector  with 
albino  eyes  draw  a  notebook  from  his  pocket  and 
watched  his  pencil  point  scribble  rapidly.  In  that  at- 
mosphere everything  was  as  clearly  delineated  as 
though  he  were  looking  down  from  an  aeroplane.  All 
things  seemed  minute  and  magnified  and  unreal. 

As  he  went  on  speaking,  Destin  noticed  how  full 
and  resonant  his  voice  had  become.  But  at  the  back, 
men  were  straining  to  hear  and  turning  to  one  another 
to  ask — "What  is  he  saying?  What  is  he  saying?*' 
He  could  read  the  movement  of  their  lips. 

"Now,"  went  on  Creegan,  "after  one  hundred  years 
at  the  political  game — ^the  game  of  'heads  I  win  tails 
you  lose'  —  you've  started  another  red  herring." 
(Somebody  laughed,  and  it  sounded  blasphemous.) 
"You've  started  a  new  phase  in  the  game  of  blind 
man's  buff — the  game  of  Independent  Labour  Repre- 
sentation.   Who  was  it  that  put  that  on  ye?" 

There  was  a  groan  that  died  away  quickly  as  it  had 
arisen. 

"Do  ye  think  for  a  single  moment  that  the  fellows 
that  own  everything  are  going  to  let  ye  ballot  your- 
selves into  power?  Do  ye  think  that  all  you  have  to 
do  is  to  go  into  the  division  lobby  and  register  your 
vote?     That  everything  will  pass  on  from  stage  to 


68  DEMOCRACY 

stage  without  the  other  fellows  taking  a  hand  in  the 
game  ?" 

("No  fear,  blast  'em!"  growled  the  bass.  A  man 
laughed  harshly.) 

"What  do  ye  think  those  jokers  in  blue  are  down 
there  for?  What  do  ye  think  they've  got  thousands 
of  men  around  here  in  the  alleyways  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  men  in  red  below  there  in  the  Welling- 
ton and  Knightsbridge  barracks  for  ?    Tell  me  that. 

"Ye  fools!  Can*t  ye  see  as  plain  as  the  noses  on 
your  faces  that  when  yeVe  played  yourselves  out  at 
the  game  of  independent  labour  representation,  which 
may  keep  you  going  for  a  few  years  longer,  the  signal 
will  be  given  and  the  boys  in  red  and  blue  set  to  work  ? 
Can't  ye  see  it?" 

Away  at  the  back  of  the  people,  there  was  a  con- 
fused movement,  a  swaying  of  heads.  Half  a  dozen 
uniformed  men  ran  down  quickly,  like  so  many  pig- 
mies, from  the  stairs  at  the  far  corner  of  the  square 
and  plunged  head  first  into  the  crowd.  The  move- 
ment increased,  then  centred  into  a  whirlpool,  from 
which  broke  another  movement  that  wriggled  itself 
towards  the  back  of  the  crowd.  Then  the  knot  of 
men  appeared,  with  something  in  the  middle  of  them 
that  struggled  vainly.  They  ran  up  the  steps  leading 
out  of  the  square  on  the  left.  More  than  ever,  Destin 
felt  everything  unreal. 

The  minute  hand  was  steadily  climbing  to  the  quar- 
ter. Creegan  threw  his  eye  up  for  a  moment  and  went 
on.   .    .    . 

"This  matter  of  Joe  Lanthome  is  a  matter  for  every 
working-man  and  woman  in  Britain  and  Ireland.  Lan- 
thorne's  fight  is  not  only  a  national  fight — it  is  an 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  69. 

International.  The  question  is — what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?" 

"Fight  !'*  screamed  a  voice  from  the  left. 

"  Tight/  ye  say.  Well  how  are  ye  going  to  fight  ? 
Whether  ye  believe  in  the  vote  or  believe  in  the  strike, 
you  can't  fight  the  attack  on  Lanthorne  with  the  vote. 
This  is  something  that  has  got  to  be  settled  now.  If  I 
put  one  of  ye  into  the  ring  against  a  man  armed  with 
a  knuckle-duster — what's  that  going  to  be?  a  fight  or 
a  massacre? 

"Yet  that  is  what  you've  been  doing.  Fighting 
with  the  vote  is  fighting  with  the  bare  fist — fighting 
against  an  adversary  who  has  his  hand  weighted  with 
the  gold  of  Mammon — who  has  the  guns  of  the  army, 
navy,  and  police  behind  him  if  the  weighted  hand 
doesn't  do  the  trick.     Do  you  understand  that? 

"Do  you  understand  that?"  he  asked  once  more 
and  stopped. 

A  stream  of  sound  gathered  in  volume  until  it  ran 
through  and  around  the  square.  It  rose  in  higher 
intensity  until  it  was  heard  like  the  sound  of  distant 
musketry  down  on  Westminster  Bridge.  The  railway- 
men  were  shouting  now.  The  miners  had  broken  loose 
and  were  sending  out  their  full-throated  cries  at  the 
plinth.  From  where  Destin  looked  at  them,  he  could 
feel  the  full  beat  of  one  great  pulse — could  see  one 
yawning  mouth — a,  collective  mouth,  that  cried  out — 
with  vengeance  and  triumph  and  joy  in  the  heart  of 
it.  Destin  felt  every  throb  of  that  heart  in  his  own 
as  it  drove  the  blood  through  the  arteries  of  Democ- 
racy. Each  cry  came  from  him  and  to  him.  He  was 
the  crowd. 

Creegan  had  raised  his  hand.     Quickly,  the  angry 


70  DEMOCRACY 

animal  before  him  had  simk  again,  growling  but  acqui- 
escent. 

"Boys,  keep  quiet  and  keep  cool — ^now,  and  in  the 
fight  that  is  coming.  Remember  that  the  fight  of  the 
future  will  be  the  fight  of  the  barricade  and  the  strike. 
Remember  that  this  will  be  settled,  not  with  votes  and 
pretty  speeches,  not  with  silk  hats  and  silkier  voices, 
not  across  the  floor  of  the  House  of  Commons,  but 
on  the  floor  of  the  People's  House — the  streets.  The 
hard  grey  streets  ye  know  so  well. 

"And  if  they  bring  out  the  soldiers — are  they  not 
your  brothers  and  mine?  If  they  bring  out  the  boys 
in  blue — don't  they  spring  from  the  people?  Are  not 
the  very  warships  that  rule  the  seas  for  a  handful  of 
aristocrats  manned  with  our  flesh  and  blood?  They 
may  shoot  us  down  to-day  at  the  bidding  of  Mammon. 
Will  they  shoot  us  down  to-morrow? 

"If  we  speak,  shall  they  not  listen?  If  we  give  the 
message,  will  they  not  hear?" 

Steltham  had  made  half  a  step  forward  as  though 
to  stop  the  speaker,  who,  with  a  fine  sweep  of  the 
hand,  went  on  without  heeding  him.  By  this  time  the 
crowd  was  in  the  hollow  of  his  voice — and  he  knew 
it.  A  masterly  figure  of  a  man  he  looked,  with  some- 
thing brutal  in  the  face — a.  man  of  destiny. 

"Then  what  is  our  answer  to  be?"  he  asked  in  the 
silence.  "Is  it  to  be  more  bargaining — more  dickering 
— or  is  it  to  be  the  answer  of  the  strike?  Which  is  it 
to  be?" 

"Strike!    Strike!    Strike!" 

The  sound  rose  in  ever-widening  circles,  turning  in 
a  vortex  of  rage. 

"Strike!    Strike!    Strike!" 

The  blue  lines  were  broken  now.    They  were  swept 


TRAFALGAR  SQUARE  71 

into  the  maw  of  the  mob.  The  square  was  a  seething 
maelstrom  of  madness. 

"Strike!    Strike!    Strike!" 

The  sound  rose  and  circled  overhead — passed  up- 
wards and  outwards  to  the  millions  of  the  city,  to 
whom  the  cry  came  as  the  cry  of  men  breaking  from 
the  tomb.    The  dumb,  dead  mob  had  found  voice. 

"Strike!    Strike!    Strike!" 

Denis  Destin  found  his  mouth  open,  whilst  from  his 
cracked  throat  came  the  sound: 

"Strike!    Strike!    Strike!" 


ON    THE   WATERS    OF    FLEET   STREET 

Denis  Destin  had  lowered  his  pen  at  Fleet  Street. 
Fleet  Street  didn't  trouble.  One  "free-lance"  more  or 
less  didn't  matter.    In  Fleet  Street  nothing  matters. 

But  it  mattered  to  Destin. 

His  failure  ate  into  him  in  a  vital,  disagreeable 
manner,  turning  the  secretions  of  his  body  acid.  At 
least,  he  always  felt  it  that  way. 

For  he  hated  failure.  Hated  it  not  only  as  a  fight- 
ing, competitive  animal,  with  the  lust  "to  make  good," 
but  also  in  a  rather  fine,  impersonal  way.  Hated  it 
because  to  him  it  spelled  incompetence.  But  above 
and  beyond  all  because  it  stifled  something  in  him  that 
would  not  be  stifled. 

For  Destin  felt  that  he  could  write.  Felt  that  within 
him  there  was  something  which  he  must  express. 
Something  that  was  too  un-flexible  and  involved  to 
pass  the  point  of  his  pen.  Something  that  pulsated 
like  an  angry  tooth. 

But  to  drag  this  thing  from  him  needed  something 
he  had  not  got.  He  didn't  know  how  to  begin.  He 
didn't  even  know  what  he  wanted  to  write.  His  mind 
was  cosmic.  The  variety  of  the  Universe  appalled 
him — and  he  wanted  to  write  on  the  Universe!  He 
had  the  Universal  Mind. 

Day  by  day  he  was  frozen  into  the  nightmare  of 
impotence  he  knew  so  well.     The  feel  underneath  of 

72 


ON  THE  WATERS  OF  FLEET  STREET    73 

fresh,  strong  life  that  was  waiting  to  find  expression 
— that  he  could  not  express.  The  f eeHng  that  he  was 
walking  upon  the  edge  of  circumstance  —  that  the 
world  of  which  he  was  the  axis  was  turning  faster 
and  faster,  setting  up  a  vibration  that  appalled. 

Now  he  had  been  three  months  at  home,  and  had 
not  placed  a  single  manuscript. 

And  whilst  this  was  going  on  inside  him,  from  the 
outside  was  another  stress. 

His  mother  had  wept  silently  each  time  she  heard 
the  click-click  of  the  second-hand  typewriter  he  had 
bought.  She  did  not  speak.  Only  sat  there  with  the 
same  hard,  proud  face,  and  the  old  pulsation  coming 
and  going  in  the  mouth  like  an  accusing  signal. 

His  father,  volcanic,  bombarded  him  from  all  angles 
and  at  all  times.  "See  what  your  Socialism  has 
brought  you  to."  "Throwing  up  an  assured  position." 
"Steady,  even  progress  to  an  honoured  place."  "The 
godlessness  of  the  age."  And  then,  to  cajolery — "Be 
a  sensible  man  and  go  back  to  the  City." 

"Go  back  to  the  City."  He  said  it,  and  meant  it, 
that  rather  than  sit  in  the  sheltered  meanness  of  an 
office,  he  would  go  as  a  navvy  on  the  streets. 

Then  came  another  stroke  of  fate,  to  prise  him  loose 
from  all  holds.  His  mother  had  a  second  seizure, 
which  left  her  paralysed  from  the  waist  downwards. 
It  seemed  she  had  been  worrying,  and  the  fine,  delicate 
brain,  overwrought,  had  worn  too  thin. 

Then  his  father  had  said  the  things  which  could  not 
be  unsaid,  and  so,  one  evening,  when  the  road  was 
dancing  under  the  fierce  rays  of  the  July  sun,  he  had 
helped  a  man  to  carry  his  one  trunk  to  a  mean  street 
not  far  from  the  Beech  Road,  where  he  found  him- 
self in  the  poor,  little  room  in  the  fourth  floor  back. 


74  DEMOCRACY 

When  the  man  left  him  standing  there  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  the  great  shoulders  came  forward, 
the  strong  head  sunk  in  the  hands,  and  Denis  Destin 
cried. 

Nine  pounds  and  some  shillings  in  his  pocket.  His 
typewriter  and  his  brains.     Nothing  else. 

His  mind  piled  up  the  terrors  of  his  position.  Be- 
hind him,  four  or  five  months  of  unbroken  failure — 
not  a  line  printed.     In  front — what? 

Should  he  go  back  to  Peabody  and  Parsons?  Al- 
ready they  had  written  offering  him  his  old  place  "if 
he  would  be  more  reasonable  in  the  future."  The 
man  who  succeeded  him  had  not  been  a  success  it 
seemed. 

"More  reasonable."  Again  he  felt  everything  with- 
in him  rise  up  against  "reasonableness,"  against  that 
dead,  orderly  progression  of  commercial  life — against 
the  whole  condition  of  "things  as  they  are."  In  an 
instant,  his  nerves  had  tautened.  His  heart  beat 
strongly  once  more.  He  would  take  his  life  and  his 
chances  in  his  hands.  It  was  the  old  unconquerable- 
ness  rising,  geyser-like,  inside  him. 

Step  by  step  he  ran  his  mind  back  over  his  failures. 
Why  had  he  failed? 

When  he  was  still  in  the  city  he  had  written  in- 
frequently— just  as  the  fit  seized  him.  And  he  had 
placed  a  couple  of  insignificant  MSS. 

True,  they  had  been  badly  mutilated  before  print- 
ing. True,  that  every  strong  passage  —  everything 
which  had  something  of  himself  in  it— had  been  as 
ruthlessly  cut  out  as  though  it  had  been  a  cancer. 
Only  the  dry  bones  of  "facts"  had  been  left.  But  still 
they  had  passed  from  the  dead  MSS.  into  the  life  of 
the  printed  page. 


ON  THE  WATERS  OF  FLEET  STREET    75 

Fleet  Street  was  not  cosmic.  It  was  local — ^and  con- 
centrated.   Fleet  Street  wanted  facts. 

It  burst  upon  him  in  that  moment  that  above  and 
beyond  all  other  things,  editors  wanted  "facts."  He 
had  always  understood  they  dealt  in  fictions.  It  had 
been  drummed  into  him  that  newspapers  dealt  in  lies, 
that  the  public  paid  for  them. 

Then  another  flash,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  living 
in  a  time  when  the  appetite  for  facts,  facts,  facts,  was 
voracious  and  insistent.  His  Daily  Meteor  streamed 
with  facts.  The  popular  weeklies  corruscated  with 
facts.  The  people  to  whom  he  spoke  at  the  street 
corner  night  after  night  demanded  facts.  The  Trafal- 
gar Square  and  Hyde  Park  meetings  bristled  with 
facts.  Facts  poured  out  from  platform,  from  pulpit, 
from  press.    It  was  the  Age  of  Facts. 

Very  well.  If  the  public  wanted  facts — then  he 
would  give  them  facts. 

Another  flash.  Why  not  find  out  exactly  what 
editors  wanted.  He  had  heard  young  Wildish  say 
one  night  that  "there  was  no  good  writing  on  spec. — 
always  go  and  see  the  old  man,  my  boy." 

But  how  to  see  "the  old  man?" 

He  thought  of  editors  as  fierce  animals.  He  didn't 
mind  fighting  a  crowd  with  all  the  inspiration  that  a 
crowd  could  give.  He  was  a  demagogic  animal.  But 
fighting  an  editor — a  shadowy  monster  who  saw  no- 
body, but  crouched  in  his  den,  shunning  the  light  of 
day,  was  another  matter. 

He  could  debate  and  had  debated  on  the  platform 
within  the  past  few  months,  and  that  with  some  dis- 
tinction. But  to  be  shut  up  alone  with  a  man  in  his 
sanctum — that  was  something  other.    And  then  there 


76  DEMOCRACY 

was  the  very  good  chance  that  no  editor  would  see 
him. 

But  it  had  to  be  done.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  two 
or  three  letters  to  the  editors  of  the  big  dailies,  asking 
them  to  see  him,  and  awaited  the  reply,  without  any 
hope  of  receiving  one. 

He  was  considerably  gratified,  however,  to  learn 
from  the  Literary  Editor  of  the  Evening  Owl  that  he 
would  be  delighted  to  consider  anything  he  sent  in: 
from  a  nebulous  "we"  of  the  Incubator  that  nothing 
could  give  them  greater  pleasure  than  to  look  at  his 
work:  whilst  the  Mocking  Bird  even  sent  him  a  printed 
list  of  "What  we  don*t  want."  They  all  seemed  to 
have  overlooked  his  request  for  an  interview.  But 
surely  the  promise  of  consideration  was  better  than 
any  interview. 

Success  at  last  had  opened  her  arms.  He  sent  in 
his  manuscripts.  As  regularly,  they  returned  with  the 
slip — "The  Editor  regrets  ..."  He  tried  the  ma- 
jority of  the  weeklies  with  the  same  result. 

Matters  were  getting  serious,  even  though  he  only 
had  to  pay  eight  shillings  a  week  for  his  room  and 
had  become  an  expert  in  the  art  of  buying  food,  for 
no  Hammersmith  housewife  could  tell  him  anything 
about  the  places  which  specialised  in  cheap  bacon, 
cheap  fruit,  cheap  vegetables.  He  had  under  five 
pounds  in  his  pocket. 

In  his  extremity  he  thought  of  the  Duchess  of  Chil- 
lington.  He  wrote  and  asked  her  for  a  letter  of  in- 
troduction to  any  editor,  for  the  newspaper  world  and 
the  Duchess  were  on  more  than  speaking  terms.  It 
was  said,  indeed,  that  she  lived  always  with  a  tele- 
phone to  her  ear.    The  Duchess  was  "good  copy." 

The  kindhearted  Duchess  promptly  sent  him  an 


ON  THE  WATERS  OF  FLEET  STREET    17 

inflated,  gilt-edged,  faintly  scented  letter  (her  note- 
paper  was  one  of  her  ways  of  defying  organised  soci- 
ety), introducing  him  to  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Me- 
teor, which  left  him  blushing  and  grateful  and  rather 
surprised  at  her  close  knowledge  of  his  powers.  Yet 
it  left  him  a  little  uncomfortable  too. 

A  terrible  anti-Socialist  paper,  the  Meteor.  Meteoric 
in  name  and  nature.  Went  in  for  "the  largest  circula- 
tion," making  its  appeal  equally  to  duke  or  dustman. 
Even  had  an  old  crusted  port  country  squire  circula- 
tion to  give  it  tone.  Always  had  the  earliest,  and 
despite  its  critics,  the  most  accurate  telegrams,  and  for 
its  pains  was  called  a  liar  by  its  less  effective  competi- 
tors, which  weekly  saw  large  bites  taken  out  of  their 
circulations.  Seemed  to  have  a  telephone  to  the  South 
Pole  and  the  infernal  regions,  not  to  mention  the 
Higher  Powers,  for  the  Meteor  could  be  celestial  at 
times. 

The  Meteor  was  a  microphonous  ear  which  caught 
every  whisper  of  the  world,  and  a  megaphonic  mouth 
which  could  trumpet  its  news  to  eager  millions,  or  shut 
itself  up  as  close  as  a  Bank  of  England  vault. 

Destin  was  in  the  roar  of  Fleet  Street,  with  his 
golden  envelope  in  his  pocket.  His  confidence  was 
complete  when  he  felt  it  between  his  fingers. 

He  saw  pallid,  over-driven  men  running  up  and 
down  the  narrow  street  like  lines  of  ants.  Saw  long- 
haired young  men,  their  hats  dinted  ingeniously,  who 
walked  uncertainly,  carrying  large  pasteboard  covers 
under  their  arms.  Each  unit  of  the  crowd  seemed  to 
know  its  business  and  the  shortest  way  to  it — ^all  ex- 
cept the  young  men  with  the  pasteboards. 

He  felt  happy  to  be  part  of  this  hurrying,  buzzing 
thoroughfare,  with  his  work  to  do  like  the  others  and 


78  DEMOCRACY 

his  foot  on  the  first  round  of  the  spiral  of  success.  He 
felt  the  social  sense  grow  largely  within  him.  His 
heart  beat  faster  and  his  brain  grew  giddy  as  he  passed 
down  one  of  the  side  streets  to  Bethlehem  House. 

Then  he  caught  the  hum — or  was  it  the  growl?— of 
something.  As  he  walked  along,  it  grew  to  a  roar — 9. 
steadfast,  insistent  roar  with  a  pulsation  in  the  heart 
of  it.  Then,  and  he  scarcely  knew  why,  he  was 
afraid. 

Down  there  through  the  windows  that  ran  below 
the  level  of  the  pavement,  he  caught  the  gleam  of  steel, 
like  the  gleam  of  teeth.  Shadows  moved  dimly 
amongst  those  whirling  arms  and  voracious  cylinders 
that  vomited  out  the  white  sheets  faster  than  the  eye 
could  follow. 

Into  the  building,  and  there  the  roar  and  thud  shook 
the  floor  on  which  he  stood.  Muffled,  it  held  the  great 
building  upright  in  its  vortex. 

The  roar  made  everything  unreal.  In  a  dream  he 
felt  himself  mounting  to  the  stars,  always  followed  by 
that  roar.  In  a  dream  he  passed  down  a  long  corridor 
and  through  a  room,  at  the  table  of  which  twenty  or 
thirty  men  were  scribbling  hurriedly. 

Then  he  found  himself  in  a  spacious,  unobtrusive 
room,  standing  on  a  soft  pile  carpet — ^with  the  roar 
cut  off  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  as  if  he  were  in  a 
safe.  Yet  he  could  hear  it,  stifled,  trying  to  creep  in 
under  the  door. 

At  the  square  mahogany  table  sat  a  young-looking 
man,  with  steel-grey  eyes,  and  a  big,  compressed 
mouth.  His  hair  was  grey,  but  he  might  have  been 
Destines  own  age. 

In  his  hand  he  held  the  Duchess's  letter. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  looked  squarely  at  Destin, 


ON  THE  WATERS  OF  FLEET  STREET    79 

who  stood  there,  tonguebound.  There  was  something 
about  this  man  that  made  him  helpless. 

"Well  ?"  The  word  was  cut  off  at  the  lips  as  though 
by  a  scissors. 

Destin  stood  there  in  ungainly  silence,  his  shoulders 
hunched,  his  long  arms  hanging  at  his  sides,  like  a 
boxer  waiting  for  the  gong.  There  was  a  cold  quick 
air  about  the  man  that  angered  him.  Some  under- 
strapper he  supposed. 

"I  wanted  to  see  the  editor,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"I  am  the  editor,"  said  the  man  in  the  chair. 

Destin  didn't  know  that  he  was  looking  at  one  of 
Bethlehem  House's  wonderful  young  men — that  House 
where  it  was  said  that  every  office  boy  had  an  editor's 
contract  in  his  pocket. 

"Oh !"  was  all  Destin  could  say. 

"Please  say  what  you  want,"  said  the  man  at  the 
table  curtly. 

In  a  moment  Destin  had  flamed  into  self-control. 
He  resented  the  tone.  For  that  matter,  he  resented  the 
whole  place. 

The  man  did  not  ask  him  to  take  a  chair,  so  he  took 
one. 

The  big  mouth  relaxed  a  little.  A  gleam  shot 
through  the  eyes. 

"Please  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do  for  you," 
he  said  more  kindly. 

"You  have  seen  the  Duchess  of  Chillington's  letter?" 
said  Destin. 

"Yes,  I've  seen  it  all  right,"  said  the  great  man.  "If 
you  take  my  advice  you  won't  throw  those  letters 
around  too  much." 

Destin  was  again  combative. 

^I  want  to  write  for  you,"  he  blurted  out. 


80  DEMOCRACY 

"What  can  you  write  ?" 

What  could  he  write?  Why,  he  could  write  any- 
thing, and  he  said  so. 

"  'Anything'  in  Fleet  Street  is  'nothing,'  Mr.  Destin. 
I  want  to  know  what  you  know  ?" 

What  did  he  know?  Here  again  was  that  demand 
for  facts.    What  did  he  know  ? 

Not  getting  an  answer,  the  man  at  the  table  went 
on — "Fleet  Street  knows  only  two  sorts  of  men :  those 
who  know  what  the  others  don't,  and  .  .  .  the  others. 
Are  you  one  of  'the  others'?" 

"I  know  the  labour  movement,"  said  Destin,  with  a 
fine  flash  of  inspiration  and  lying.  He  had  been  exactly 
four  months  and  a  half  in  it. 

"Look  through  there,"  said  the  man  at  the  table, 
pointing  across  an  angle  of  the  building  to  the  room 
he  had  passed  through  on  his  way  in,  where  the  men 
were  still  writing  without  cessation.  "There  are  half  a 
dozen  of  those  men  who  know  the  labour  movement 
backwards,  and  there  isn't  a  single  one  of  them  who 
isn't  holding  down  his  job  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.  If 
I  lift  a  hand,  I  can  get  a  hundred  like  them,  who  also 
know  the  labour  movement  and  who  will  write  on  it 
from  now  till  the  crack  of  doom  or  the  sack."  And 
he  smiled  quite  nicely. 

"But  they  don't  know  it,"  challenged  Destin.  "Your 
labour  articles  show  that,"  he  said  daringly.  "They 
don't  give  the  facts." 

The  man  smiled  at  him  amusedly. 

"Do  you  know  what  a  modern  newspaper  is?"  he 
said.  This  man  had  one  weakness.  He  had  to  talk 
about  the  passion  of  his  life — the  newspaper. 

"The  modern  newspaper  is  an  ear  and  a  mouth — a. 
great  ear  that  scoops  everything  and  a  discreet  mouth 


\ 


ON  THE  WATERS  OF  FLEET  STREET    81 

that  only  speaks  sometimes  of  what  the  ear  has 
gathered.    There  are  ^facts'  and  'facts/ 

"The  newspaper  is  out  to  give  the  facts — some- 
times. But  'facts'  are  the  things  that  move  the  minds 
of  men,  and  therefore  have  to  be  given  with  discretion. 

"For  we  are  the  masters  of  mankind.  The  spoken 
word  is  often  forgotten  the  moment  it  is  uttered — the 
power  of  print  to  fix  the  written  word  has  an  uncanny 
property — that  of  swaying  men's  minds,  forming  their 
poHtical,  and,  what  is  to-day  much  the  same  thing,  their 
religious  opinions. 

"That  is  the  miracle  known  as  'what  the  public 
want,'  or  what  it  thinks  it  wants.  'What  the  public 
want'  means  circulation,  and  circulation  means  power. 
Democracy  is  a  dangerous  animal — it  needs  tickling. 
It  is  our  business — yours  and  mine — ^to  tickle  it.  It 
can  be  led  on  a  thread,  but  not  driven  by  whips  of 
steel." 

The  man  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  talking 
frantically,  but  as  though  he  were  speaking  to  someone 
else — to  something  inside  him. 

"The  public  to-day  demand  facts.  We  give  it  facts. 
But  it  wants  the  facts  it  likes.  We  give  it  the  facts  it 
likes,  or  thinks  it  likes. 

"It  is  our  business  to  get  those  facts.  We  spare 
nothing — in  face  of  the  fiercest  of  competitions  we 
dare  spare  nothing — to  get  them — ^neither  money,  nor 
(Conscience,  nor  even  life  itself.  The  paper  with  the 
facts  of  the  right  sort  is  the  paper  with  the  power. 

"Think  of  our  power.  A  man  sits  here  with  a  tele- 
phone to  his  ear.  From  that  'phone  runs  a  maze  of 
wires  which  film  like  spider  webs  across  the  world, 
girding  it  in  a  net.  Everywhere  we  have  our  'cloud  of 
silent  witnesses,'  listening  and  recording.    It  gives  to 


82  DEMOCRACY 

the  writer  a  power  never  before  wielded  by  a  single 
man — even  a  Buonaparte— over  the  thoughts  and 
therefore  over  the  destinies  of  millions. 

"A  hundred  years  ago  the  newspaper  was  nothing. 
At  the  time  of  Waterloo,  it  took  half  a  week  to  get  the 
news  to  the  London  Stock  Exchange — to-day  it 
wouldn't  take  half  an  hour — even  the  fluctuating  for- 
tunes of  the  battle,  each  cavalry  charge,  could  be  fol- 
lowed moment  by  moment  throughout  Europe.  And 
strange  as  it  is,  it  is  the  fact  that  we  can  give  the-man- 
in-the-street  the  news  of  a  cavalry  charge  or  an  aero- 
plane flight  immediately  it  has  happened,  which  gives 
us  our  power  over  him. 

"That  is  the  power  of  'the  topical.*  Man  has  be- 
come a  listening  animal  the  curiosity  of  which  is 
unappeasable — which  lives  on  facts.  He  comes  to  the 
hand  that  feeds  him.    But  his  food  must  be  fresh. 

"Democracy  to-day  through  its  curiosity  is  the  will- 
ing victim  of  suggestion.  It  is  on  this  that  wars  are 
made ;  loans  are  granted ;  cabinets  rise  and  fall.  It  is 
a  human  being  sitting  in  some  obscure  room  in  Fleet 
Street,  who,  sending  the  inspired  word  to  waiting  De- 
mocracy, moulds  the  minds  of  men,  making  or  marring 
national  destinies. 

"The  newspaper  builds  up  barriers,  but  it  is  also 
breaking  them  down.  We  are  the  masters  of  men,  as  I 
said,  but  they,  in  the  long  run,  are  ours. 

"We  shall  always  go  on  mastering  and  being 
mastered,  and  when  we  have  run  an  etheric  'wireless' 
throughout  the  star  systems,  we  shall  rule  the  Uni- 
verse." 

This  was  a  man  after  Destin's  own  heart.  He  didn't 
think  there  was  such  a  human  being  in  Fleet  Street.   ^ 

The  editor  pulled  himself  up  in  his  stride,  and  like  a 


ON  THE  WATERS  OF  FLEET  STREET    83 

man  coming  out  of  a  dream  turned  to  Destin.  "But 
you  haven't  come  to  hear  that.  Now  you  know  how- 
ever the  kind  of  job  you're  tackling.  Have  you  any 
other  reason  why  I  should  let  you  write  for  us  ?" 

"But,"  said  Destin  despairingly  as  he  saw  his  chance 
slipping  from  him,  "your  public  want  labour  facts." 

"Do  they?"  He  smiled  whimsically.  "Are  you 
sure?" 

"At  any  rate  the  masses  of  working  people  who  read 
your  paper  want  the  facts  about  the  progress  of  the 
labour  movement  put  before  them  by  an  expert?" 

"Do  they?"  said  the  editor  again,  a  little  wearily. 
"Do  you  know  what's  troubling  the  factory  girl?  not 
the  price  of  factory  labour  or  the  eight  hour  day,  but 
what  the  Duke  said  to  the  Duchess  in  the  conservatory 
after  dinner." 

In  a  last  despairing  plunge,  Destin  put  in — "But  why 
not  make  a  new  experiment  in  the  Meteor?  why  not 
have  a  regular  labour  article  written  by  a  man  in  the 
labour  movement?    I  am  a  Socialist." 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  amazing  young  man  before  him, 
"and  you  won't  have  to  go  through  Fleet  Street  with  a 
fine  tooth-comb  to  find  a  hundred  or  two  more,  editors 
and  otherwise.  And  when  'the  largest  circulation* 
is  a  Socialist  circulation,  the  Daily  Meteor  will  be 
Socialist.  They  say  that  'trade  follows  the  flag,'  but 
in  Fleet  Street  'the  flag  follows  trade.'  " 

Destin  stood  with  his  mouth  open. 

"And  what  is  more,"  said  the  great  man,  "if  you 
like  to  go  into  Fleet  Street  and  proclaim  it,  I  shall  not 
mind.  We  don't  ask  what  a  man's  politics  are  in  Fleet 
Street." 

He  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Destin  had 
failed.    As  he  passed  out  the  voice  behind  said: 


84  DEMOCRACY 

"All  the  same,  If  you  care  to  send  me  an  odd  article, 
I  will  have  a  look  at  it,  but  send  it  to  me  personally. 
There's  my  card.    But,  mind,  I  promise  nothing." 

Destin  was  caught  up  in  the  roar.  It  came  through 
the  building  after  him — it  came  behind  him  as  he  went 
out  into  the  street — and  even  in  the  distance  he  could 
hear  the  thing  muttering  after  him. 


VI 


MANICURED    REVOLUTION 


Then  began  a  hand  to  hand  struggle  with  fortune  in 
Cross  Street,  where  he  had  his  room.  Four  weeks  went 
by  after  his  Daily  Meteor  interview,  but  no  sign  came 
from  the  editor.  He  had  sent  in  two  articles,  in  which 
he  had  set  out  pretty  fully  his  views  upon  current 
labour  questions.  The  first  had  come  back  within  three 
days  with  the  usual  printed  slip;  the  second  had  re- 
mained out  a  week,  after  which,  for  another  week,  he 
spent  his  diminishing  halfpennies  upon  the  Meteor  ex- 
pecting to  see  it  in  print. 

Now  he  was  looking  at  his  second  article,  with — 
"Damn  your  views.  Where  are  your  facts  ?"  scrawled 
across  it  in  blue  pencil. 

He  hated  the  Meteor.  He  hated  the  man  with  the 
grey  eyes.  He  was  adding  insult  to  injury.  He  sulked. 
The  Meteor  could  soar  to  heaven  with  its  circulation  or 
sink  into  the  pit  before  he  sent  it  a  word. 

This  lasted  a  week,  when  his  old  hatred  of  failure 
asserted  itself.  He  wrote  a  short  thousand- word  article 
upon  the  Syndicalist  movement,  giving  what  Wildish 
had  once  called  coarsely  "the  guts"  of  the  thing,  indi- 
cating the  line  of  advance.  He  despised  it.  It  was  a 
corpse  of  an  article.    He  had  prostituted  his  talent. 

It  stayed  out  like  the  previous  ones.  He  didn't  even 
trouble  to  buy  a  copy  of  the  paper  and  awaited  its 
return. 

85 


86  DEMOCRACY 

He  was  walking  through  the  Underground  station 
at  Hammersmith,  when  the  station  turned  round  him. 
It  seemed  as  though  somebody  else  were  looking  at  the 
scarlet  Meteor  poster  with  the  words — "The  Syndi- 
calist Menace/^  and  in  smaller  type — ''By  a  Syndi- 
caHst." 

He  saw  his  name  in  print  for  the  first  time  on  page  4. 
He  had  drawn  first  blood.  The  rest  seemed  easy. 
Having  one's  articles  upon  posters  was  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to  "write 
down."  After  all  it  was  legitimate  enough  when  a  fel- 
low had  to  earn  his  bread  and  butter. 

He  was  wrong.  Many  months  went  by  before  the 
Meteor  took  another  article.  However,  he  began  to 
pick  up  a  few  shillings  here  and  there  in  all  kinds  of 
despised  weeklies,  and,  though  it  seemed  impossible, 
when  the  money  totalled  up,  it  was  keeping  him  alive. 

In  the  previous  months  he  had  been  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  "writing  down"  to  the  crowd, 
until  one  day  he  discovered  that  he  was  writing  as  well 
as  he  knew  how.  Not  writing  what  he  wanted  to 
write,  but  putting  his  best  into  what  he  did  write.  It 
was  humiliating.   .   .  . 

By  this  time  Destin  was  committed  to  the  Socialist 
left  wing.  The  Trafalgar  Square  meeting  had  con- 
firmed him.  Each  night  saw  him  laying  down  the  law 
— expostulating,  arguing,  and  even  fighting  with  his 
audiences. 

"Direct  action"  was  his  text.  Physical  force  and  the 
General  Strike.  His  mind,  like  his  voice,  had  become 
megaphonic.  Giant  policemen  listened  in  sleepy  good 
humour  to  the  fulminations  of  Creegan's  new  lieuten- 
ant, for  with  the  meteoric  rise  of  Creegan's  star  in  the 
political  firmament,  Destin  with  Wildish  and  one  or 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  87 

two  others  found  himself  flaming  upwards  giddily. 
Wildish  did  not  exactly  declare  himself  against  all 
political  action,  but  he  was  contemptuous  enough  of 
the  House  of  which  he  was  a  member,  and  fierce 
enough  to  be  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  Syndicalist 
Simon  Pure,  dyed  in  the  wool. 

The  pace  was  hair-raising.  Like  a  man  on  a  tight 
rope,  he  felt  he  had  to  run  forwards  faster  and  faster 
or  fall.  The  Direct  Actionists  had  held  one  or  two  big 
Hyde  Park  meetings,  there  being  much  talking,  dust, 
and  noise.  The  magnet  at  the  second  meeting  had 
been  an  Italian  Syndicalist  leader  of  the  name  of  Mari- 
anetti,  who  nearly  caused  a  riot  on  the  platform 
through  his  fatal  fluency  in  Anglo-Italian,  which  pre- 
vented his  leaving  off.  He  was  full  of  fire  and  facts, 
but  he  left  Destin  a  little  cold  too.  There  was  some- 
thing about  his  nondescript  hair  and  gingery,  upturned 
moustaches  which  left  everything  he  said  a  little  col- 
ourless to  Destin.  The  crowd  however  shouted  for 
him. 

But  the  distinguished  Frenchwoman  who  was  the 
principal  speaker  at  the  second  platform  satisfied  him. 
There  was  a  slash  and  sweep  about  her  words  which 
went  well  with  her  tall,  well-developed  bust,  small  hips, 
and  flaming  Buffalo  Bill  hat,  which  would  have  looked 
flamboyant  and  ridiculous  on  anyone  else. 

She  riddled  the  politicals,  doing  it  in  excellent  Eng- 
lish, too,  poking  fun  especially  at  Steltham  and  Mc- 
Graw.  She  was  called  Satalia — just  that.  Everyone 
addressed  her  by  that  single  name  and  forgot  any 
other,  if  she  had  ever  had  another. 

After  listening  to  her  speech,  Destin  felt  more 
assured  than  ever  of  the  intuitions  which  had  led  him 
into  the  Direct  Action  camp.    True,  there  were  one  or 


88  DEMOCRACY 

two  doubtful  references  in  her  speech  about  the  free- 
dom of  the  individual  which  left  him  a  little  chilled, 
for  the  lady  on  the  platform  seemed  to  regard  liberty 
and  license  as  the  same  thing,  but  he  forgot  all  this 
quickly. 

Creegan  had  been  there,  but  he  was  cold,  almost 
brutal,  to  Mme.  Satalia.  Destin  thought  it  might  be  a 
little  political  jealousy,  but  he  put  it  from  him  as  un- 
worthy. 

After  that  second  meeting,  the  Syndicalists  found 
themselves  political  Ishmaelites.  Theirs  was  a  motley 
enemy,  for  their  former  comrades  in  that  "Mahomed's 
coffin  of  revolution,"  as  Damascene  phrased  it,  the 
Social-Democratic  Union,  the  orthodox  Labourists  of 
the  Workers'  Party,  and  the  Law  itself,  found  them- 
selves in  awkward  comradeship  against  the  new  force. 
The  Social  Democrats  felt  hurt  at  the  secession  of  so 
many  of  their  members  to  the  camp  of  ultra  revolution, 
after  abandoning  political  action,  in  which  they  be- 
lieved, provided  it  were  of  the  proper,  militant,  class- 
conscious  brand ;  whilst  it  was  only  natural  they  should 
not  easily  forgive  the  stealing  of  their  own  revolution- 
ary thunder.  As  impossibilists,  who  had  declared 
against  the  panacea  of  political  action,  the  Workers' 
Party  of  course  had  no  use  for  them. 

All  this  however  put  Creegan's  men  into  effective 
isolation,  being  able  to  criticise  not  only  what  they 
called  happily  "the  labour  fakirs,"  but  "Mahomed's 
coffin,"  which  hung  between  that  paradise  of  ortho- 
doxy, the  Workers'  Party,  and  the  hell  of  revolution, 
and  pluming  themselves  upon  pioneering  into  the  New 
Jerusalem. 

As  he  gained  fluency  and  power,  Destin  found  him- 
self giving  three  parts  of  his  speeches  to  criticisms  of 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  89 

other  comrades.  As  a  critic,  he  was  megasauric,  but 
there  were  difficulties  on  the  constructive  side,  which, 
however,  he  got  out  of  by  simply  saying — "Aren't  the 
workers  ten  to  one?  The  workers  have  the  future  in 
their  own  hands.  Let  them  refuse  to  sell  their  labour- 
power,  and  capitalism  must  fall." 

It  was  a  watertight  argument.  To  him  there  could 
be  no  reply.    It  was  one  of  his  new  "facts." 

Sometimes,  only  sometimes,  a  Trade  Union  branch 
would  ask  the  Direct  Actionists  to  send  a  speaker  to 
propound  the  new  gospel.  At  the  beginning,  in  these 
Unions,  he  was  flattered  at  the  warmth  of  his  reception, 
until  he  discovered  that  it  invariably  came  from  a  small 
section  of  the  younger  men,  the  men  who,  after  Wild- 
ish,  were  coming  to  be  known  as  "the  young  men  in  a 
hurry."  And  even  this  was  only  the  case  in  some 
Unions,  which  seemed  to  vary  as  much  in  psychology 
as  their  individual  members. 

Most  of  the  branch  leaders,  who,  as  a  rule,  were 
eager,  active  young  men,  whilst  criticising  the  lack  of 
militancy  of  the  Parliamentary  leaders,  frankly 
avowed  themselves  in  favour  of  the  National  Workers' 
Party,  and  were  mostly  members  of  its  Socialist  wing, 
the  Independent  Socialists,  whilst  the  older  men, 
though  saying  little,  looked  askance  at  the  new  method 
of  progress  by  barricade.  Generally  speaking,  and  with 
one  notable  exception,  that  of  the  South  Wales  miners, 
eager  fiery  Celts,  with  a  strong  Syndicalist  impregna- 
tion, the  new  propaganda  was  not  a  success. 

But  one  or  two  debates  he  had  in  local  halls  were 
more  like  the  real  thing.  Here  he  had  "wiped  the 
floor"  with  his  more  orthodox  opponents.  For  Destin, 
under  the  lash  of  the  crowd,  was  very  hard  indeed  to 
stop  when  he  got  under  weigh.     Each  day  saw  him 


90  DEMOCRACY 

gaining  new  courage  and,  what  he  had  begun  to  regard 
as  an  essential  of  life  for  the  Syndicalist  movement — 
advertisement.  By  this  time  the  Syndicalists  were  run- 
ning upon  the  same  lines  as  the  Meteor,  minus  the 
respectability. 

He  was  now  in  charge  of  "Creegan^s  Invincibles,"  a 
sort  of  flying  corps  which  the  Direct  Actionists  flung 
into  Workers'  Party  meetings.  They  were  composed 
of  fanatical  young  men  who  were  being  used  as  the 
nucleus  and  inspiration  for  the  Direct  Actionists  within 
the  Unions,  and  were  beginning  to  make  themselves 
felt.  They  had  their  own  headquarters  in  one  of  the 
back-blocks  near  the  Mile  End  Road,  from  which  they 
swooped  down  with  masses  of  propaganda  literature 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  numbers,  with  which  they 
flooded  the  streets  and  the  Unions. 

They  now  formed  a  standing  headline  in  the  Daily 
Meteor — "Creegan's  Invincibles  Again!"  which  took 
a  dignified  interest  in  the  new  fanaticism,  and  even 
went  so  far  as  to  pat  them  on  the  back  in  a  leaderette, 
which  left  Destin  with  mixed  emotions.  Still,  it  was 
all  to  the  good. 

One  of  the  backers  of  the  Invincibles  was  Miss 
Craven,  who,  taking  no  active  part  herself,  was,  how- 
ever, the  goddess  in  the  machine.  As  Destin  often 
said,  they  would  have  been  lost  without  her  help.  He 
was  constantly  at  the  Hampstead  flat,  where  there 
were  always  badges  to  be  made,  policies  to  be  dis- 
cussed, or  a  sympathiser  (influential)  to  be  met  at 
afternoon  tea.  Miss  Craven  did  not  spare  herself,  or 
her  table,  or  her  pocket. 

But  she  was.  always  cool — ^never  flurried.  And 
through  it  all  she  kept  her  virginal  inaccessibility. 

Miss  Craven  it  seemed  was  giving  *'a  little  friendly 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  91 

talkee-talkee"  for  a  few  sympathisers  at  "The  Hut," 
as  she  called  her  flat.  It  was  most  essential  to  the 
future  of  the  cause  that  Destin  should  be  present  as 
there  would  be  a  good  chance  to  rope  in  a  few  likely 
ones. 

When  he  entered  the  little  antechamber  that  served 
as  a  hall  for  "The  Hut,"  Destin  caught  the  scent  of  hot 
tea  and  cake  and  heard  through  the  open  door  the 
infernal  clatter  he  knew  so  well. 

Miss  Craven's  flat  was  as  she  said  "a  Liberty  flat" — 
Liberty  by  design  and  by  nature.  The  cool,  water- 
green  curtains  shaded  to  a  nicety  the  polished  oak 
floors,  on  which  rugs  from  the  Orient  gave  a  precari- 
ous foothold. to  the  mass  of  humanity  which  slid,  or 
limped,  or  fell  from  wall  to  wall.  The  distemper  was 
a  shade  of  delicate  grey.  There  were  some  reproduc- 
tions of  Hals  and  other  masters,  with  a  genuine  Corot, 
whilst  two  blue  Chinese  vases  stood  on  either  side  of 
the  open  fireplace  like  sentinel  dragons. 

Divans  that  were  gargantuan  cushions,  took  the 
place  of  chairs,  whilst  there  was  an  absence  of  bric-a- 
brac  which  did  credit  to  the  owner's  taste. 

Vesta  Craven,  in  a  sea-green  gown  which  clung  to 
her  like  a  mermaid,  was  standing  near  the  door.  She 
nodded  to  him  proprietorially  as  to  one  she  saw  every 
day,  holding  her  Russian  cigarette  between  her  first 
and  second  fingers  to  the  manner  born,  not  like  the 
many  other  ladies  who  were  smoking  with  an  air  of 
desperation,  who  held  their  cigarettes  awkwardly  be- 
tween thumb  and  forefinger  as  though  they  were 
needles. 

He  drifted  into  the  group,  which  was  remarkable. 
All  Miss  Craven's  groups  were  remarkable.  A  young 
man  clothed  in  a  sort  of  collarless  Greek  garment,  bare- 


92  DEMOCRACY 

footed  and  sandalled,  his  straight,  lank  hair  hanging 
to  his  shoulders,  was  speaking  about  Epictetus.  Epic- 
tetus  it  seemed  was  not  known  enough  in  England. 
His  was  a  complete  philosophy.  The  gospel  of  manual 
labour-digging  with  the  spade  for  instance — "the  sim- 
ple life,"  "the  return  to  nature" — these  were  the  ideals 
of  Epictetus  or  of  the  speaker — Destin  could  not  be 
sure  which,  as  he  was  thinking  of  the  likeness  to  a 
picture  of  Christ  he  had  seen  in  an  Irish  chapel.  But 
"Epictetus"  looked  indeed  a  weak  edition  of  all  the 
Christs  that  had  ever  been  painted.  He,  it  seemed, 
was  an  anarchist. 

Miss  Craven  puffed  daintily  at  her  cigarette,  with 
her  name  in  gold  on  the  side.  When  the  gentleman  in 
the  robe  spoke  of  digging,  she  nodded  her  head  em- 
phatically, to  encourage  him. 

The  philosopher  was  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his 
dreamiest  periods,  in  which  bananas  was  the  leit  motiv, 
when  Miss  Craven,  rather  rudely  it  seemed  to  Destin, 
who  felt  quite  sorry  for  the  speaker,  fluttered  across 
the  room  and  shook  by  both  hands  a  young  girl, 
dressed  in  white,  who  had  just  entered.  Two  or  three 
others  had  run  over  and  were  clustering  around  her 
adoringly. 

"Now,  virgin  queen,"  said  one  of  them,  "tell  us  all 
about  it.    How  did  you  escape  the  cops?" 

"Oh !  do  tell  us,"  the  others  chorused  ecstatically. 

The  girl  they  addressed,  a  rather  plain,  pert-looking 
girl,  with  an  upturned  nose  and  baby  cheeks,  seemed 
singularly  self-possessed  and  was  clothed  in  a  fine  air 
of  indifference.  She  was  obviously  used  to  homage 
and  as  obviously  bored. 

There  was  something  so  cherubic  and  childlike  about 
the  girl  that  Destin  was  surprised  to  find  everybody 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  93 

staring  at  her.  A  woman  behind  him  said — "So  that's 
Pamela,  is  it?"    Then  he  remembered. 

This  was  the  Pamela  Priggle  who  had  chained  her- 
self either  to  the  Clock  Tower  or  the  Speaker's  Chair 
— ^nobody  seemed  to  know  which.  Who  had  drafted  a 
scheme  for  tunnelling  under  the  House  of  Commons 
from  a  house  opposite,  which  was  found  by  the  police 
to  be  full  of  the  earth  taken  out.  The  stand-by  of  the 
halfpenny  picture  press,  which  always,  when  in  doubt, 
"played  Pamela." 

Now  she  destroyed  the  glamour  of  her  reputation  by 
asking  in  matter-of-fact  tones  for  a  cup  of  tea.  There 
was  an  enthusiastic  rush  to  get  it  for  her. 

The  girls  who  stood  around  her  chattering  volubly 
were  all  fashionably  dressed  in  a  desperate,  ragged 
way.  Their  compressed,  turned-in  mouths,  their  eager, 
quick  eyes,  and  a  general  air  of  living  in  the  middle  of 
events,  contrasted  with  Vesta  Craven's  air  of  delicate 
languor. 

Above  the  chatter,  he  caught  the  piercing  voice  of 
a  woman  older  than  the  rest.  A  harsh-featured,  hol- 
low-cheeked, pallid  woman,  fashionably  dressed  in 
black.  She  was  speaking  to  a  girl  bizarrely  clothed  in 
a  black  and  yellow  checked  tunic  gathered  at  the  waist 
by  a  green  snake  belt,  a  skirt  and  stockings  of  purple, 
and  sandalled  feet.  When  this  girl  moved  she  walked 
flat-footed  like  a  ballet  dancer.  Her  short  black  curls, 
monkeyish  but  attractive  face,  and  brilliant  black  eyes 
arrested  the  attention. 

She  was  speaking  to  the  woman  in  black  in  low, 
hoarse  accents,  her  companion  cutting  across  her  with 
at  voice  piercing  and  hard. 

"But  don't  you  see,"  the  latter  was  saying,  "don't 
you  see  that  if  you  give  the  vote  to  all  men  and  women 


94  DEMOCRACY 

you  will  let  in  the  common,  uneducated  horde  ?  When 
we  women  have  the  vote  on  a  property  qualification 
which  will  give  the  vote  to  refined  and  educated 
women,  then  of  course  we  shall  vote  against  Adult 
Suffrage.  Pamela  says  so."  This,  as  an  appeal  be- 
yond which  there  was  no  argument. 

*'0h,  damn  Pamela!"  said  the  girl  in  the  sandals 
bluntly.  "I'm  an  anarchist,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
Government,  by  votes  or  otherwise,  but  if  you  give 
the  vote  to  what  you  call  'ladies/  then  the  working- 
woman  should  have  it  too." 

"I  fear,"  said  the  other  woman  haughtily,  *'that 
neither  our  language  nor  our  ideals  have  much  in  com- 
mon." And  she  turned  across  the  floor,  whilst  the 
girl  in  the  tunic  laughed  venomously  after  her. 

Destin  had.  been  listening  to  all  this,  when  there  was 
an  exclamation  behind  him  in  the  doorway,  and  there 
swayed  Damascene  in  his  cloak,  which  flamed  back 
from  his  shoulders  in  scarlet  splendour,  the  sweeping 
sombrero  of  black  velvet  held  in  his  right  hand,  whilst 
his  left  rested  upon  a  black  cane  with  an  ivory  top 
carved  into  the  head  of  a  gargoyle,  which  spat  malig- 
nantly at  the  room. 

"Good  God !  this  is  too  much,"  he  murmured  under 
his  breath  as  he  clutched  at  the  wall. 

Miss  Craven  had  run  forward,  leaving  her  friend, 
who,  for  all  her  indifference,  seemed  to  throw  her  nose 
a  trifle  into  the  air. 

"What  is  it.  Damascene?    Do  tell  me." 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  that  agitated  young  man, 
whose  monocle  stared  glassily  at  her.  "What  is  it? 
Good  God,  ma'am !  can't  you  see  ?" 

He  pointed  with  the  cane  at  a  scarlet  vase  which 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  95 

flamed  in  the  corner.  "That  vase  against  that  wall 
has  nearly  cost  me  my  life." 

"And  I  thought  you  would  like  it  too,"  pouted  Miss 
Craven.     "I  put  it  there  this  morning." 

"  Tut  if  there.'  Tut  it  there/  he  repeated.  "You 
don't  put  vases,  you  let  them  put  themselves. 

"Scarlet  against  those  curtains?  What  are  you 
thinking  of  Vesta?"  he  asked,  sinking  cloak  and  all 
upon  a  yellow  and  green  divan. 

And  there  he  sat  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  en- 
throned, still  wearing  his  cloak,  and  grasping  his  hat 
and  stick.  To  Destin  he  looked  ridiculous,  but  there 
was  something  magnificent  about  him  too. 

Three  or  four  young  men  had  stolen  to  his  side. 
There  was  an  intangible  something  which  to  Destin 
made  their  faces  all  of  a  strange  camaraderie »  It  might 
have  been  a  shadow  or  it  might  have  been  the  light — 
like  the  greeney-brown  reflection  on  the  face  of  a  man 
when  he  bends  over  a  glass  of  absinthe.  In  the  face 
of  the  one  who  was  speaking  to  Damascene  in  a  low, 
sweet  voice,  almost  like  that  of  a  girl,  a  tracery  of  lines" 
was  whipped. 

Denis  Destin  caught  snatches  of  their  conversation. 
"...  I  told  Josephs  I  wouldn't  pay  a  thousand.  It 
might  not  be  a  genuine  Carillo.  You  know.  Damas- 
cene, that  little  yellow  spot  was  not  underneath." 

"But  you  know,  dear  boy,  that  there  are  three  in 
existence  without  the  spot." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  but  I  wasn't  taking  any  chances. 
And  then  my  room  is  now  a  scarlet  and  grey  and  the 
vase  would  thunder  against  the  background." 

All  four  men  spoke  in  slow,  even  voices,  whilst  they 
sipped  their  tea  and  nibbled  delicately  at  their  cake. 
One  of  them  had  a  curiously  protruding  vision.    It  was 


96  DEMOCRACY 

something  Destin  had  noticed  about  Damascene  him- 
self. 

A  threatening  figure  was  staring  down  at  Damascene 
where  he  lolled.  The  hands  were  clasped  easily  behind 
the  fan-shaped  back.  The  face  was  contemptuous. 
Damascene  glanced  up  as  he  felt  the  stare. 

"Creegan,  my  dear  chap,  how  are  you  ?  How  ener- 
getic you  were  in  the  Square  the  other  Sunday.  How 
do  you  do  it  ?" 

Damascene's  friends  looked  at  Creegan  disdainfully. 

"One  would  imagine  you  believed  in  all  that  sort  of 
thing  and  so  on  and  so  forth,"  went  on  Damascene, 
fanning  himself  with  his  sombrero. 

"The  difference  between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Dam- 
ascene," said  Creegan  roughly,  "is  that  I  believe  in 
something,  and  you  in  nothing."  The  other  remained 
perfectly  unruffled. 

"But  you  are  so  damnably  personal,  my  dear 
Creegan,"  he  expostulated. 

"And  you  are  wrong — indeed  you  are."  He  was 
speaking  earnestly  as  though  to-  himself.  "I  believe  in 
Socialism  just  as  much  as  you  do,  but  I  don't  believe 
in  getting  hot  over  it.  Life  isn't  worth  it.  For  every 
one  reason  you  can  give  me  for  believing  in  Social- 
ism, I'll  give  you  twenty,  and  much  more  elegantly." 

"I  believe  in  Socialism,  because  I  believe  in  the 
people,"  said  Creegan  sullenly. 

"The  people!  My  dear  fellow!  How  shockingly 
old-fashioned  you  are.  'Vox  populi — vox  Dei.'  Who 
are  the  people?    What  do  the  people  know? 

"Why  the  people  would  not  understand  the  harmony 
of  those  Chinese  vases  and  the  distemper  and  this 
floor,  nor  the  time  and  trouble  it  took  me  to  assemble 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  97 

them.  The  people  spit  and  smell  and  are  a  damn 
nuisance. 

"Why,  my  dear  Creegan — and  you  will  understand 
no  personal  reference  is  intended — you  can't  dine  with 
the  people  or  wine  with  them.  You  can't  write  for  the 
people,  though  I  admit  you  can  speak  to  them. 

"Now  I'm  a  Socialist  because  I  don't  like  ugly  things 
— including  the  people.  Let  us  abolish  the  people.  To 
do  that  you  must  have  Socialism.  When  you've  abol- 
ished the  people  you  will  have  abolished  all  that  is 
worth  abolishing." 

The  young  men  were  smiling  softly,  like  cats  it 
seemed  to  Destin. 

"Well,  Mr.  Damascene,"  said  Creegan  in  a  low, 
harsh  voice,  the  brogue  rolling  through  it  angrily,  "ye 
can  talk  about  abolishing  the  people,  of  'art  for  art's 
sake,*  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Ye  can  talk  of  Socialism 
as  ye  talk  of  a  painted  woman  or  a  beautiful  room,  but 
I  tell  ye  that  the  people  are  a  living,  breathing  thing. 
They  are  the  basis  of  everything — it  is  they  who  build 
your  beautiful  rooms  and  give  their  leisure  to  the 
architects  to  design  them  as  they  give  it  to  your  paint- 
ers who  paint  your  pictures  and  their  daughters  for 
your  light-o'-loves.  Everything  rises  from  them — 
everything  goes  back  to  them.  In  a  sense,  the  artist 
is  the  people.  Sneer  at  the  mob — laugh  at  it — ^but,  by 
God !  the  people  are  your  master  and  mine." 

And  Creegan  strode  away,  leaving  Damascene 
laughing  heartily  on  his  cushion  as  he  turned  to  his 
Platonists. 

Destin  looked  at  Creegan's  shoulders  passing 
through  that  crowd  as  though  they  were  pigmies.  Then 
he  looked  at  Damascene.  And  then,  as  he  looked,  he 
felt  that  he  wanted  to  put  his  foot  on  that  smiling  face. 


98  DEMOCRACY 

He  couldn^t  understand  it,  for  he  had  rather  liked  this 
man  with  the  monocle  and  the  everlasting  sleepy  smile. 
Now  he  felt  as  if  he  were  something  monstrous,  some- 
thing to  be  trodden  underfoot. 

He  had  forgotten  this,  however,  as  he  caught  that 
delicate  odour  of  "White  Rose'*  which  he  now  knew 
so  well.  A  little  fresh  hand  was  on  his  arm.  A  little 
voice  was  saying  in  his  ear — "Come,  Destin." 

The  sound  of  his  name,  unadorned,  thrilled  him.  It 
put  him  on  a  level  with  Damascene.  He  was  one  of 
them.  It  was  the  collective-sense — the  feeling  of  exotic 
comradeship. 

"Let  us  talk  here,  away  from  all  these  people."  She 
led  him  to  a  partially  screened  corner. 

"I  want  to  talk  about  the  meeting  for  Sunday  .  .  . 
Destin.'*  There  was  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause  before 
the  name.  Again  it  thrilled  him  with  a  delicious  feel- 
ing of  camaraderie^  but  with  something  else  in  it  too. 

As  she  bent  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and 
the  finger-ends  of  her  little  shapely  hands  touching, 
he  sensed  the  slender  girlishness — with  something 
womanly  and  satisfying,  and  something  irritating  in 
it  too.  He  sensed  the  slender  limbs  and  delicate 
woman-curves.  The  perfume  that  came  from  her 
took  possession  of  him.  With  it,  that  indefinable  odor 
feminina. 

It  passed  through  and  about  him,  and  mingled  with 
the  scent  of  the  tea,  the  colours  of  the  room — with  the 
whole  exotic  whirl  of  living  breathing  beings.  He 
surrendered  himself  to  it. 

Many  times  before,  when  in  the  late  hours  they  had 
been  discussing  ways  and  means  far  into  the  night,  this 
anaesthesia  of  woman  had  come  to  him — almost  lulled 
him  more  than  once  into  something  of  which  he  could 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  99 

see  neither  the  beginning  nor  the  end — ^had  impelled 
him  to  the  edge  of  something  direct  and  desperate. 

For  Denis  Destin  had  a  sensuous  side — an  eating, 
corroding,  shadowy  side,  which  found  itself  in  subtle 
but  violent  contrast  to  that  other  side — that  hard, 
sterner  idealism. 

No  woman  had  ever  been  so  provocative  to  Destin 
as  this  girl  who  sat  near  him — so  tantalising — so  alto- 
gether desirable.  This  afternoon  in  particular  she  was 
alluring.  Yet  she  was  only  speaking  about  that  Sun- 
day meeting. 

Hitherto  she  had  always  kept  him  at  a  distance — 
with  an  inflection,  a  word,  she  had  held  him  at  arm's 
length.  Now,  although  she  was  speaking  of  meetings 
and  speakers,  there  was  something  intimate,  something 
surrendering,  something  winning.  And  Destin  lost 
himself. 

With  all  his  self-assurance,  he  felt  humble  with  this 
girl.  Felt  unsure.  Now,  as  she  sat  by  him,  for  the 
first  time  it  ran  through  his  mind  that  he  loved  her. 

He  had  never  thought  of  that  with  her.  There  was 
something  about  Vesta  Craven  which  shut  out  the 
thought  of  marriage. 

Even  as  he  thought  it,  he  found  himself  bending 
forward,  speaking  passionately  to  her.  Asking  her  if 
she  felt  only  to  him  as  a  comrade.  Whether  she  cared 
for  him  a  little  otherwise. 

The  clatter  of  the  cups  was  deafening.  The  smother 
of  words  numbing.  But  even  through  it  all  he  could 
not  fail  to  notice  her  sang  froid — her  splendid  cool- 
ness.   It  chilled  him,  but  it  held  him  too.  .  .  , 

And  now  she  was  laughing — a  low  laugh  that  came 
and  went  deeply  like  the  glug-glug  of  a  nightingale. 
"Dear  boy,"  she  said,  and  for  one  tiny  moment  rested 


100  DEMOCRACY 

her  fingers  on  his  knee.  "Perhaps  I  do.  We  shall 
see.  .  .  ." 

Angry  a  little,  he  was  following  it  up  by  asking  her 
to  say  what  she  meant,  when  a  woman  in  a  diaphanous 
gown  and  henna  wig,  a  sort  of  elderly  Babylonian 
dancing  girl,  followed  by  half  a  dozen  men  and  women, 
had  run  across  the  room  and  appealed  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"Now,  Vesta,  you  shall  be  the  arbiter.  Enid  here 
is  talking  most  shockingly.  She  says  she  believes  in 
'free  love.'  And  Ella  Tosti  says  it  is  the  only  honest 
thing.  She  says  if  you  are  an  anarchist  and  a  vege- 
tarian, you  must  be  a  'free  lover.'  That's  not  true,  is 
it?  Look  at  the  guilty  couple  over  there  caught  in 
flagrante  delicto"    And  she  sniggered. 

She  pointed  to  a  tall,  pale,  hollow-cheeked  girl  who 
stood  against  the  mantelpiece  speaking  to  the  girl  in 
sandals  whom  Destin  had  seen  before.  Vesta  Craven 
laughed  and  said  to  Destin,  "Come."  There  was 
again  that  air  of  the  proprietor  which  flattered  but 
annoyed  him  also. 

They  went  over  to  the  two  girls. 

"Repeat  what  you  said,  you  naughty  girl,"  said  the 
lady  of  the  wig. 

The  tall  girl  replied  quietly,  as  she  sucked  at  her 
cigarette,  "There  is  nothing  much  to  repeat — only  that 
I  believe  in  'free  love,'  sexual  freedom,  call  it  what  you 
will.  I  am  only  putting  into  words  what  three-fourths 
of  you  believe  in  and  practice— or  would  if  you  dared 
.  .  .  much  the  same  as  the  outside  world  you  know." 
Her  words  came  cuttingly. 

The  mouth,  thin,  was  compressed.  She  wore  a 
fringe,  frowsy  and  pale,  French  fashion.  There  was 
an  air  of  in-brooding— of  a  light  behind  those  pale  eyes 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  101 

as  though  she  were  consumed  by  some  hidden  fire  ^rhat 
tormented  her.  . .  *  '. 

"Free  love,"  repeated  in  a  horrific  undertone  pne  of 
Miss  Priggle*s  young  ladies  in  a  lamp-shade  skirt, 
"What  we  want  to-day  is  not  more  license,  but  less. 
If  I  had  my  way,  I  would  make  every  marriage  a  life- 
long union,  and  punish  any  infraction  of  it  with  hang- 
ing. I  have  burned  a  few  churches  in  my  time,  but  all 
the  same  I  would  stop  this  registry  office  scandal,  and 
compel  everybody  to  be  married  by  a  clergyman.  It 
gives  some  guarantee  of  permanency." 

The  girl  in  sandals  burst  in — "Rot !  Do  you  know 
a  single  happy  marriage?  Be  honest  now.  Is  man  a 
polygamous  animal  or  is  he  not  ?  Come — put  it  plainer 
still — is  not  woman  a  polygamous  animal  too  when 
you  go  deep  enough?  Don't  the  divorce  courts  show 
that?  What  is  the  logical  outcome  of  that  but  free 
mating?  When  men  and  women  can  leave  each  other 
when  they  feel  inclined,  there  will  be  no  more  prosti- 
tution and  no  more  'hidden  plague.'  " 

"I  don't  go  as  far  as  you,  dear,"  tittered  the  lady 
from  Babylon  nastily.  "But  there's  something  in  it 
too." 

"Have  you  practised  what  you  preach?"  put  in  the 
tall  girl  quietly,  looking  at  Ella  Tosti  with  cold  con- 
tempt. 

The  other  blenched.  "My  private  morals  are  no 
business  of  anybody,"  she  stammered.  "Such  a  ques- 
tion is  a  stupid  insult." 

"Because  if  you  have,  it  is  your  business  to  say  so," 
said  the  tall  girl.  "I  haven't,  but  I  wish  to  God  I 
could." 

The  eyes  of  the  speaker  glowed  as  though  the 
quenchless  fire  inside  were  blazing  again.    She  had  the 


102  DEMOCRACY 

eateit,  -suppressed  look  of  the  virgin  who  is  passing 
the  thirties.    No  one  there  doubted  hen 

Mis*:  Craven  held  herself  aloof,  though  not  Puritan- 
ically aloof,  from  this  talk  of  free  love.  Destin 
thought  she  looked  daintier  than  ever,  with  her  air  of 
friendly  exclusiveness.  Creegan  was  prowling  up  and 
down  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  like  a  caged  tiger, 
whilst  two  other  girls,  who  looked  like  burned  out 
matches,  were  sucking  their  cigarettes  eagerly  and 
tearing  the  subject  to  pieces.  But  what  Destin  noticed 
was  that  nobody  cared  to  say  they  had  passed  from 
theory  to  practice. 

Whilst  he  was  thinking  on  this,  he  found  that  the 
discussion  in  some  unaccountable  way  had  shifted  to 
vegetarianism  and  vivisection. 

He  was  carried  away  in  the  babel  that  ensued,  in 
which  he  caught — "the  shedding  of  blood" — ''licensed 
torturers" — "corpses  of  animals"- — "uncooked  food" 
— "sun-kissed  fruit" — whilst  the  clatter  became  un- 
bearable. 

The  floor  had  become  a  mosaic  of  expostulations, 
chatterings,  arguments.  The  dancing  girl  was  empha- 
sising with  a  bejewelled  hand  some  point  in  the  corner, 
whilst  near  her,  calm  and  placid,  Epictetus  was  talking 
on  in  the  steady  even  voice  which  Destin  had  heard 
when  he  entered  the  room.  The  girl  with  the  cherub 
face  was  now  talking  rapidly,  as  he  could  see  by  her 
lips,  for  no  sound  reached  him — whilst  she  drew  some- 
thing rapidly  with  a  fountain  pen,  taken  from  the 
chatelaine  at  her  waist,  upon  a  piece  of  paper  for  the 
benefit  of  the  coterie  which  surrounded  her  adoringly. 

Damascene  sat  on  his  cushion  smiling,  holding  a 
court  of  young  men,  who  lounged  about  him  on  divans 
and  cushions  which  they  had  dragged  around  him. 


MANICURED  REVOLUTION  103 

The  clamour  was  terrifying.  The  scent — the  flash 
of  jewels — the  bare  feet  of  Epictetus — the  rustle  of 
silks — the  shimmering  movement — and  through  it  all 
the  fresh  dainty  presence  of  Vesta  Craven,  who  sat 
there  quite  coolly,  sipping  her  tea  and  mouthing  her 
cigarette. 

Creegan  alone  stood  aloof.  He  was  in  the  comer, 
half  crouching,  looking  out  of  the  window,  his  eyes 
set  across  the  roof-tops  of  London,  now  turning  to 
molten  bronze  in  the  dying  furnace  of  the  September 
sun. 

Destin  wondered  of  what  he  was  thinking. 


VII 

THE    RIGHT    TO    GET    DRUNK 

Destin  saw  it  in  his  Meteor.     A  paragraph  under 
"Odds  and  Ends." 

"Some  men  at  Bowchester,  on  the  Great  North- West- 
ern Railway,  are  threatening  to  come  out  owing  to  the 
suspension  of  a  goods  driver  for  drunkenness.  Not  much 
importance  is  attached  to  the  threats.  The  failure  of 
similar  threats,  made  at  the  Trafalgar  Square  protest 
meeting  last  June,  is  still  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  public." 

A  little  clerk  in  the  corner  of  the  railway  carriage 
had  caught  sight  of  the  paragraph  at  the  same  time. 
"I  say,  Harry,  here's  another  of  those  drunken  rail- 
waymen  suspended,  and  the  usual  talk  of  strike.  I 
suppose  they'll  go  on  strike  for  the  right  to  get  drunk 
next."  He  laughed  to  his  companion,  who  replied 
with  a  little  throaty  crackle. 

Several  others  joined  in,  one  man,  a  rubicund  stock- 
broker, giving  his  theory  of  strike-stopping — what  he 
called  the  theory  of  the  mailed  fist.  "Settle  *em  in  a 
jiff,"  he  said  lightheartedly,  "but  what  can  you  expect 
of  the  present  government?" 

It  seemed  that  each  man  there  had  his  pet  theory, 
from  frank  bludgeoning,  to  bargaining  and  "doing  the 
fellars  in  the  eye." 

The  carriage  having  settled  the  matter  comfortably, 
it  may  be  imagined  that  Destines  late  incursion  into  the 
argument,  with  shock  tactics  delivered  like  a  charge 

104 


THE  RIGHT  TO  GET  DRUNK         105 

of  heavy  cavalry,  with  much  smashing  and  slashing, 
carried  dismay  into  the  ranks  of  "things  as  they  are." 
As  one  man  in  the  corner,  with  a  preposterously  pale 
face  and  heavy  jowl  said — "Here  was  a  man  who  by 
his  appearance  was  a  respectable  member  of  the  mid- 
dle-classes, the  backbone  of  the  country,  encouraging 
anarchy  in  the  broad  light  of  day.    Where  were  you?" 

When  the  train  reached  the  terminus,  it  seemed  that 
the  Bowchester  trouble  was  taking  head.  That  early 
halfpenny,  the  Twinkler,  published  nominally  for  late 
news,  but  actually  for  racing  tips,  had  even  brought  out 
a  placard — "Railway  Strike  Threatened/'  whilst 
its  rival,  the  Night  Bird,  made  no  bones  about  it,  but 
declared  in  extra  big  type — "Strike  for  Right  to 
GET  Drunk  !"  In  fact,  as  time  went  on,  the  railway- 
men  and  insobriety  became  synonymous  to  the-man- 
in-the-street,  who  saw  everywhere  drunken  drivers, 
drunken  guards,  and  drunken  porters — ^a  saturnalia  of 
delirium  tremens  on  wheels. 

As  the  day  came  to  a  close  and  Destin  had  finished 
his  editorial  calls,  Fleet  Street  began  to  hum.  You 
could  feel  it  in  the  air  and  hear  it  raucously  on  the  cold 
December  wind.  "Extra  Speshul.  Grite  Rilewye 
Strike!  .  .  .  Speshul!!"  Passing  down  Bouverie 
Street,  there  was  a  maddened  mob  of  ragged  sporting- 
capped  newspaper  boys  at  the  counter  of  the  Owl, 
screaming  for  "pipers."  As  fast  as  a  boy  got  a  bundle 
he  ducked  under  the  crowd,  and  breaking  his  way  out, 
scuttled  off,  screaming — "'Orrible  Threat  by  Creegan." 

"Creegan."  At  the  name,  unknown  to  the-man-in- 
the-street  a  few  months  before,  men  fumbled  quickly 
in  their  pockets  and  gave  pennies  for  halfpenny  papers, 
the  boys  running  along,  dodging  in  and  out  of  the 
traffic,  whilst  rushing  past  them  went  dilapidated  but 


106  DEMOCRACY 

workmanlike  bicycles  ridden  by  crouching  monkeys 
with  open  bags  bulging  with  distended  packets  of 
papers,  wheeling  here,  under  a  horse's  nose,  there, 
under  a  policeman's,  and  overrunning  the  highways 
and  byeways. 

The  Kensington,  dignified  as  ever,  simply  put  in 
black  type  on  white  ground  the  words — "Creegan 
Again/*  No  notes  of  exclamation  about  the  Ken- 
sington. 

Late  into  the  night,  when  the  cold  moon  flooded  the 
broad  streets,  a  poster  fluttered  out — "50,000  Men  on 
Strike!"  But  that  was  the  Twinkler,  and  nobody 
took  the  Twinkler  seriously,  though  what  the  Twinkler 
didn't  know  it  guessed  and  was  right  much  oftener 
than  it  had  any  right  to  be.  As  he  passed  along  the 
Embankment,  Destin  heard  the  growl  of  the  giant  in 
Bethlehem  House.  He  could  see  the  miles  of  paper 
fed  into  the  maw  of  the  monster  and  those  one  and  a 
half  millions  of  the  digested  matter  pouring  out,  run- 
ning on  motor  vans  to  the  special  trains,  waiting  to 
scatter  them  over  Britain. 

In  Bethlehem  House  he  could  see  lights  twinkling. 
There  must  be  big  work  on.  And  the  thought  came  to 
him  of  what  the  editor  had  said  to  him  of  the  power 
of  the  press. 

The  next  morning  came  a  line  from  Creegan,  scrib- 
bled in  an  angular,  powerful  hand  with  heavy  down 
strokes,  as  though  it  were  written  with  a  pickaxe: 
"Bowchester,  December  14.  This  time  it  is  the  real 
thing.  Go  with  Wildish  and  feel  the  pulse  of  the 
London  dockers.  Write  me  to  headquarters  of  rail- 
waymen's  union.^ — B.  C." 

Out  in  the  street,  and  the  Twinkler,  liar  or  not,  had 
run  up  to  "100,000  Men  out.    Strike  Spreading.-" 


THE  RIGHT  TO  GET  DRUNK         107 

Then  the  Daily  Worker,  the  organ  of  the  National 
Workers*  Party,  curiously  restrained — "Big  Railway 
Strike/'  He  paid  his  halfpenny  for  the  Worker  and 
found  the  strike  relegated  to  the  lower  columns  of  the 
front  page  and  about  four  inches  of  matter.  In  a 
leaderette  there  were  some  vague  references  to  "throw- 
ing over  the  leaders  .  .  ."  "anarchic  action  .  .  ."  and 
"we  do  hope  that  Mr.  Creegan  will  keep  himself  in 
hand." 

After  he  had  made  a  call  upon  the  editor  of  a  weekly, 
who  had  wired  him  that  morning  and  who  wanted  him 
to  write  an  article  on  "What  the  Workers  Really 
Want,"  he  went  down  to  the  Syndicalist  headquarters. 
He  had  already  telephoned  Wildish,  who  promised  to 
meet  him  there  "any  time  he  liked."  From  the  height 
of  a  bus  at  the  Bank,  he  saw  on  a  placard — "London 
Dockers  Coming  Out.    Mr.  Belch  Talks.'' 

The  Kensington,  for  once  startled  out  of  its  cus- 
tomary dignity,  had  so  far  forgotten  itself  as  to  put 
on  a  poster — "The  Cads  and  the  Rads  ;"  presumably 
a  reference  to  one  of  the  "understandings"  it  was 
always  alleging  against  the  left  (Radical)  wing  of 
Liberalism.  "The  Cads,"  it  frankly  said,  were  those 
working  men  who,  "forgetting  the  best  traditions  of 
labour  and  that  'Laborare  est  orare,'  had  actually  de- 
manded the  right  for  an  engine  driver  to  become  intox- 
icated— a  man  who  every  day  had  hundreds  of  lives 
in  his  charge,"  (it  had  got  slightly  mixed  had  the 
Kensington,  for  the  man  who  was  suspended  was  the 
driver  of  a  goods  train  with  nothing  on  board  but  him- 
self, his  fireman,  and  guard)  "who  had  been  found 
disgustingly  drunk  in  the  streets  of  Bowchester.  The 
fact  that  he  was  'off  duty'  at  the  time,  and  the  denials 
of  his  fellows,  does  not  make  his  offence  any  the  less 


108  DEMOCRACY 

heinous.  .  .  "  It  quite  broke  down  in  its  leader  in 
the  face  of  such  depravity,  and  it  was  all  very  dignified 
and  improving.  ' 

The  London  dockers  had  their  headquarters  in  the 
Mill  wall  Road,  in  what  had  been  a  century  before  a 
private  house.  The  place  was  a  regular  hive — the 
door  was  open  and  men  were  crawling  in  and  out  like 
bees.  Upstairs  he  found  Westerley,  the  Secretary, 
who  sat  at  his  desk  in  his  shirt  sleeves  despite  the  cold, 
as  cool  as  the  weather  outside.  He  made  a  fine  silhou- 
ette, Destin  thought,  as  he  bent  against  the  telephone 
receiver,  the  hand  lying  on  the  table  warped,  as  though 
it  had  been  broken  and  set  badly  ".  .  .  well  if  you  can't 
hold  'em,  let  'em  out  and  be  hanged  to  'em."  There 
was  a  note  of  exultation  in  his  clear,  strong  voice. 

This  man  had  been  everything.  Circus  rider,  Sun- 
day-school teacher,  foremast  hand,  stevedore,  gold 
miner,  and  many  other  things,  including  professional 
boxer — something  that  had  not  marred  a  head  and 
face  that  might  have  been  taken  from  a  Greek  vase. 
With  an  old-time  hero  of  the  movement,  a  man 
named  Bent,  who  had  since  gone  to  Australia,  he  had 
led  many  sectional  strikes  in  the  nineties,  coming  in 
on  the  crest  of  the  rising  labour  movement. 

"Wildish  hasn't  turned  up  yet?"  asked  Destin. 

"No,"  replied  Westerley,  hanging  up  the  receiver. 
"He  never  does.    It  is  one  of  Wildish's  little  ways." 

"Creegan  sent  me  a  line  this  morning.  The  Tzvink- 
ler  says  your  men  are  coming  out." 

''Are  coming  out,"  said  Westerley,  running  his 
hand  through  his  short  curling  hair.  "They  have 
come  out.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Destin ;  the  men  don't 
want  leaders  any  more.  They  are  doing  the  leading. 
It  is  the  right  spirit.     I  used  to  believe  Parliament 


THE  RIGHT  TO  GET  DRUNK         109 

was  the  shop  for  labour — ^but  'pon  me  God !  the  more 
I  think  of  it  the  more  I  believe  Creegan  is  on  the 
right  tack.  You  know  that  Ben  'down  under'  has 
come  to  the  same  conclusion.  Still,  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  having  our  men  in  the  Gas  House  at  West- 
minster to  watch  the  meter." 

"Yes,"  said  Destin  doubtfully,  "but  they  must  have 
leaders  all  the  same.    There  must  be  a  head  to  think." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  other,  "but  weVe  had 
too  many  leaders  in  the  past.  Let  the  men  lead  now 
for  a  change. 

"This  is  metaphysics,  my  boy.  It  has  grown  from 
a  glass  of  whiskey  which  never  existed!  Neither 
Belch  nor  Creegan  nor  I  knew  anything  about  it — we 
can  only  ride  the  whirlwind — ^we  can't  direct  it." 

He  broke  into  the  old  hymn — "He  rides  the  whirl- 
wind and  directs  the  storm,"  in  a  full  baritone.  "Sang 
it  forty  years  ago  when  I  was  a  teacher  in  a  New  York 
Methodist  Sunday-school." 

As  they  were  settling  a  ring  of  meetings  and  going 
through  their  list  of  speakers,  Wildish  came  in,  his 
hat  a  little  on  one  side.  "Awfully  sorry,  you  chaps, 
but  I've  had  a  frightful  lot  to  do  this  morning.  Been 
with  two  old  pals  from  Christchurch,  Platonists,  who 
are  making  things  shift  down  there.  What's  the  row?" 

They  told  him.  He  treated  it  all  as  a  huge  joke, 
and  even  asked  them  to  "come  out  and  have  one  to 
lubricate  their  thinking  apparatus."  Westerley  re- 
fused shortly. 

When  Destin  got  outside,  the  papers  were  fast  ex- 
hausting their  adjectives. 

The  London  railwaymen  had  come  out  and  the 
termini  were  congested.  It  seemed  that  the  only  way 
to  relieve  the  congestion,  according  to  the  Kensing- 


no  DEMOCRACY 

ton,  which  was  fast  losing  its  temper,  was  "a  dose  of 
ball,"  as  though  the  termini  were  a  horse  with  an  ob- 
struction. Trains  were  getting  away  sometimes, 
sometimes  not,  whilst  the  suspension  of  the  London 
suburban  service  was  gritting  the  middle  classes  into 
apoplexy. 

As  the  days  went  on  the  news  grew  worse.  The 
papers  were  by  now  speechless,  having  exhausted  their 
poster  vocabulary,  and  had  returned  to  the  simple 
statement.  "Miners  Come  Out/'  was  all  the  Twink- 
ler  could  say. 

This,  according  to  the  Kensington,  was  the  crown- 
ing infamy  of  labour.  *Tt  was  not  cricket.'*  To  take 
advantage  of  the  Christmas  season,  when  millions  of 
poor  people  needed  fire  and  light,  was  disgusting. 
The  miners,  it  appeared,  had  never  been  satisfied  with 
the  working  of  their  Rates  agreement,  and  were  now 
raising  the  devil  over  some  mythical  "difficult  places," 
from  which  the  coal  was  difficult — or  at  least  they 
said  it  was  difficult — to  "win,"  language  which  the- 
man-in-the-street  regarded  as  sheer  obtuseness  and 
perversity  invented  for  the  occasion,  and  left  it  there. 

As  the  Meteor  said  in  a  fine  peroration — "if  a  hard- 
working clerk,  trying  to  keep  himself  and  his  family 
respectable  upon  thirty  shillings  a  week,  talked  of 
'difficult  places*  when  his  ledger  was  more  troublesome 
than  usual,  what  would  his  employer  say?"  and 
stopped  there  appalled  at  the  vision  it  had  conjured  up. 

As  for  the  Direct  Actionists,  Destin  and  Wildish 
had  addressed  some  big  meetings  at  the  docks,  and 
had  been  considerably  titillated  to  see  their  names  in 
the  Owl. 

But  Creegan  and  Belch  were  the  presiding  genii 
of  the  new  revolution.     Creegan  in  particular  was 


THE  RIGHT  TO  GET  DRUNK         111 

ubiquitous.  One  day  in  the  North  stirring  up  the 
railwaymen,  the  next  at  a  London  dockers'  meeting, 
and  the  following  day  in  South  Wales,  setting  the 
brand  to  the  combustible  matter  of  the  Welsh  miners 
who  were  the  mainspring  of  the  new  miners'  move. 
But  Belch  surpassed  himself,  talking  a  great  deal  to 
sundry  newspaper  correspondents,  it  is  true,  but  show- 
ing once  more  his  gift  of  organisation.  The  Worker 
by  now  was  putting  his  name  in  capitals,  an  unusual 
thing  for  them,  even  though  he  were  a  member  of  the 
Parliamentary  Party. 

Even  the  Nottinghamshire  and  Derbyshire  miners, 
with  the  old  Liberal  tradition  still  clinging  to  them 
raggedly,  felt  themselves  swept  into  the  vortex  of 
revolution,  andi  were  ceasing  work.  This  maelstrom 
was  gathering  force  day  by  day.  It  was  as  though  it 
had  solved  the  secret  of  perpetual  motion  and  whirled 
faster  and  faster  from  its  own  innate  velocity.  The 
orthodox  Labour  members,  even,  were  forced  to  come 
down  from  the  fence  where  they  had  been  sitting  and 
go  with  the  swim  or  lose  their  grip  on  the  Unions. 

So  far,  the  Law  had  kept  the  strong  arm  in  abey- 
ance. There  had  been  a  rather  ugly  pithead  struggle 
in  Glamorgan,  in  which  Belch  had  shown  great  cour- 
age, whilst  in  Newcastle,  the  men's  pickets  had  come 
into  collision  with  the  police.  The  authorities,  how- 
ever, had  not  "seen  red,"  despite  frantic  appeals  di- 
rectly and  through  the  press  from  the  mine  owners 
and  railway  directors  for  the  upholding  of  law  and 
order. 

The  Olympian  was  thunderous  with  the  protests 
of  the  aristocracy  and  the  squirearchy,  but  it  was  the 
Daily  Meteor  which  in  particular  was  like  a  den  of 
rattlesnakes,  for  the  middle-class  man,  upon  whom  it 


112  DEMOCRACY 

largely  relied  for  its  circulation,  not  unnaturally,  find- 
ing himself  fireless,  trainless,  and  rapidly  becoming 
foodless,  "and  not,"  as  one  gentleman  expressed  it, 
"being  exactly  a  blessed  spirit,"  set  himself  on  end 
and  rattled. 

Vainly,  at  the  beginning,  the  Workers'  Party  leaders 
in  Parliament  tried  to  hold  back  the  men.  Steltham 
in  particular  did  effective  work  here  in  his  widely 
quoted  Kellerton  speech,  in  which  he  said  —  "The 
British  working-man  is  on  his  trial.  Victories  are 
not  won  by  ill-considered  action  and  the  throwing  over 
of  leaders.  Let  the  British  worker  prove  that  he  is 
not  a  mere  sentimentalist,  but  one  of  the  hardest- 
headed  men  in  Europe — not  swayed  by  the  breath  of 
faction  or  the  lure  of  direct  action." 

However  that  might  be,  the  British  working-man, 
who  seemed  to  have  been  developing  quite  a  Gallic 
impetuousness  during  the  previous  ten  years — a,  phe- 
nomenon which  one  or  two  writers,  who  had  been 
laughed  at  for  their  pains,  had  noticed — was  nibling 
at  the  Syndicalist  lure.  The  men  had  the  bit  in  their 
teeth,  "and  you  couldn't  stop  'em  unless  you  tore  the 
teeth  out  of  them,  and  you  can't  bite  without  teeth," 
Creegan  said,  and  Creegan  knew. 

The  National  Workers'  Freedom  Society,  called  by 
the  strikers  "the  Society  of  'Scabs,' "  the  name  given 
to  the  strikebreaker  despite  the  ruling  in  the  Courts 
that  such  terms  constituted  libel,  supplied  "free  la- 
bourers" to  Capital.  These  aristocrats  of  unskilled 
labour  had  the  time  of  their  lives,  running  waggons 
off  the  metals  or  into  one  another,  wrecking  engine 
rooms  (all  in  good  faith),  keeping  down  the  water 
in  the  mines  (sometimes),  and  living  on  the  fat  of 
the  land.    After  a  time,  and  in  strange  contradiction 


( 


THE  RIGHT  TO  GET  DRUNK         113 

to  the  earlier  announcements  that  Capital  "had  all  and 
more  men  than  it  wanted,"  it  seemed  that  the  new- 
comers were  likely  to  prove  un  embarras  de  richesses 
and  were  being  got  rid  of  as  quickly  as  possible. 

It  was  when  the  latter  stage  had  been  reached  and 
after  the  Shipping  Trust  found  its  steamers  either 
languishing  under  heavy  cargoes  which  could  not  be 
discharged,  or  lying  in  port  lighthanded  and  light- 
headed, that  Sir  James  Buckley,  the  genial  Board  of 
Trade  arbitrator,  suggested  an  informal  conference 
between  masters  and  men. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  men's  leaders  to  consider  the 
offer,  Creegan  laughed  at  it  and  talked  about  "bilkers." 
Westerley  followed  suit  and  declared  that  "By  Jupi- 
ter! weVe  got  their  tails  down  and  if  they  want  to 
meet  us  they  must  reinstate  Bingley"  (that  was  the 
goods  driver)  "and  concede  the  full  demands  of  the 
transport  workers  and  the  miners." 

Steltham  wasn't  so  sure.  This  in  his  opinion  was 
the  psychological  moment  for  treating.  Later,  with 
depleted  war  chests,  the  men  would  not  be  in  anything 
like  so  good  a  position  to  bargain.  And  he  knew  that 
many  of  the  Radicals  were  with  the  men  now,  whereas 
did  they  perversely  prolong  the  struggle,  they  would 
lose  their  friends  on  the  floor  of  the  House. 

The  argument  ranged  backwards  and  forwards  in 
the  Strike  Executive,  Belch  being,  for  him,  strangely 
silent.    "What  do  you  say,  Belch?"  asked  Creegan. 

Belch  began  to  speak  in  short,  quick,  stuttering  sen- 
tences, gathering  fluency  as  he  went  on. 

He  pointed  out  that  the  miners  had  lost  already 
nearly  £12,000,000  in  wages  and  strike  pay;  that  the 
dockers,  living  as  they  did  upon  something  under  an 
average  of  £1  a  week,  had  saved  nothing  and  were 


114'  DEMOCRACY 

living  God  alone  knew  how.  He  had  been  down  in 
Glamorgan  and  had  witnessed  scenes  of  desperate 
hardship.  The  little  children  whose  boots  had  been 
pawned  were  running  about  barefoot  in  the  snow — 
the  houses  lacked  food  and  were  coalless.  "They  are 
looking  each  morning  at  tens  of  thousands  of  tons  of 
the  stuff  they've  slaved  for  and  they  can't  touch  a 
grain  of  it.  That  alone  will  drive  them  back  before 
long.  Anyhow,  let  us  thrash  it  out  over  the  arbitra- 
tion table — ^we  may  beat  the  devils,  and  we  can  always 
back  out  if  we  wish." 

Creegan  was  scowling,  but  Belch,  whose  voice  had 
now  risen  to  a  bellow  and  whose  blue  eyes  were  set 
vaguely  above  the  head  of  the  chairman,  Steltham, 
pictured  such  a  tale  of  hardship  that  the  miners'  repre- 
sentatives on  the  executive  came  to  his  way  of  think- 
ing, and  a  decision  to  meet  the  masters  was  carried 
by  two. 

The  evening  papers  were  filled  with  olive  branches, 
excepting  the  implacable  Kensington,  which  declared 
that  arbitration  upon  such  a  matter  was  a  scandal. 
"Let  the  men  go  back  to  work  and  leave  the  whole 
thing  in  the  hands  of  the  masters,"  which,  as  the 
Meteor,  which  sometimes  had  a  burst  into  pro-labour- 
ism,  said,  was  archaic  and  only  worthy  of  papers 
which  hadn't  their  fingers  on  the  pulse  of  labour.  The 
Meteor  had  just  bitten  the  Kensington's  circulation  in 
two  and  was  naturally  critical. 


VIII 

MASTERS  AND   MEN 

When  Destin  walked  down  the  incline  to  the  Great 
North-Western  terminus,  in  the  offices  of  which  col- 
liery proprietors,  railway  magnates,  and  shipowners 
were  to  meet  the  men's  leaders,  it  was  like  walking 
into  a  graveyard.  Across  the  vacant  stretch  of  plat- 
forms there  was  but  a  single  trickle  of  thin  white 
steam.    The  busiest  terminus  in  Europe  was  empty. 

A  uniformed  attendant  took  him  and  his  papers  up 
in  a  noiseless  lift.  Another  ushered  him,  as  though 
he  had  been  a  railway  magnate  himself,  into  a  noise- 
less Board-room  on  the  first  stage. 

It  was  a  dark,  mahogany-toned  room,  with  crimson 
leather  table  in  the  centre  and  crimson  chairs.  Around 
the  walls  hung  the  fathers  of  the  Great  North- Western 
in  oils,  whilst  at  the  top,  behind  the  carved  chair, 
crouched  a  Chinese  joss,  leering  down  the  room. 

He  was  there  as  a  sort  of  secretary  to  Creegan,  and 
was  arranging  his  papers,  when  two  of  the  miners 
came  through  the  door.  Their  gaze  travelled  rever- 
entially around  the  room,  until  it  rested  on  the  joss. 
"Bowing  down  to  their  idols  in  wood  and  stone.  Bill !" 
whispered  one  to  the  other  behind  his  hand  as  though 
he  were  in  church.  The  other  laughed  vaguely — "Ay- 
ay,  lad." 

Westerley  came   in  as  cool   as  an   iceberg,   with 

115 


116  DEMOCRACY 

Steltham  behind  him,  who  smiled  darkly  as  he  shook 
hands.  Then  McGraw,  his  briar  in  full  blast,  with  a 
tartan  around  his  neck. 

When  all  the  men's  chiefs  had  arrived  save  Belch 
and  Creegan,  Sir  James  blew  in  through  the  door  in 
the  bluff  way  he  had,  his  flowing  side-whiskers  moist 
with  cold. 

He  went  up  to  Steltham  and  shook  him  cordially 
by  the  hand,  afterwards  taking  each  man's  hand  in  a 
close,  intimate  way.  He  always  did  it  as  though  he 
knew  everything  about  the  man.  .  .  .  "Have  met 
you  before,  my  dear  fellow — sure  of  it — can't  remem- 
ber where  at  the  moment."  He  was  generally  right, 
for  his  bluff,  clean  face,  side-whiskers,  and  pince-nez 
were  known  at  every  arbitration  table  in  Britain. 

Then  a  different  kind  of  bird.  Sir  Crespigny 
Cathcart,  called  by  the  Radicals  "Dodo"  Cathcart,  in 
reference  to  the  almost  extinct  set  of  opinions  which, 
as  a  Tory  of  the  old  school,  he  championed  both  in- 
side and  outside  the  House  of  Commons,  was  a  dis- 
tinguished-looking man,  his  hair,  like  hoar  frost, 
making  a  picturesque  crown  for  his  fresh,  clean- 
shaven face  and  coal  black  eyebrows.  His  eye  was 
glazed  by  a  monocle,  rimless  and  black-ribboned;  his 
hat,  as  black  as  ebony,  he  carried  in  his  hand,  and  a 
blue  Melton,  that  was  a  sort  of  blue  skin,  covered  his 
long  back.  A  pretty  picture  of  a  man,  though  a 
frosty  one.  He  took  a  seat  at  the  table  with  the  curt- 
est  of  nods  to  the  others. 

Three  or  four  from  the  men's  executives,  rugged- 
looking  fellows,  whose  rounded  shoulders  and  short, 
thickened  arms  told  the  story  of  hewing  and  lifting, 
came  in  at  intervals.  They  looked  stiffly  uncomforta- 
ble in  their  suits  of  good  broadcloth  and  clean  dickeys. 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  117 

Each  man  took  his  seat  close  against  his  fellows  as 
though  he  were  in  church,  and  looked  as  though  he 
didn't  quite  know  what  to  do  with  his  hands.  But 
Westerley,  Steltham,  and  McGraw,  each  in  his  own 
way,  showed  themselves  at  home — Westerley  perhaps 
a  little  too  much  so,  as  he  pulled  out  and  lit  a  strong 
black  cigar,  which  he  puffed  upwards  nonchalantly 
into  space  as  he  sat  back  in  his  chair. 

McGraw  was  talking  to  Sir  James  In  low,  gruff 
accents,  the  arbitrator  listening  with  serious  interest. 
Steltham  was  making  notes  on  the  sheet  of  foolscap 
before  him. 

A  couple  of  colliery  proprietors  and  a^  shipowner, 
all  plain  if  rather  hard-looking  men  of  affairs,  had 
entered  and  added  themselves  to  the  bunch  of  pre- 
cisely dressed  men  who  were  listening  to  a  funny  story 
being  told  by  an  earlier  arrival.  Sir  Gilbert  Goring, 
one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Shipping  Trust.  Destin  could 
see  the  round,  inflamed  head  topping  the  group,  with 
the  network  of  bluish  veins  cris-crossing  the  temples 
and  running  up  into  the  hairless  skull,  as  it  threw  it- 
self back  in  hoarse  humour;  the  great  clean-shaven 
mouth  opening  cavernously  in  a  high  laugh  to  show 
the  strong,  yellow  horse-teeth.  Over  the  high  white 
collar  that  forced  the  head  off  the  lumpy  shoulders, 
there  ran  a  deep  lip  of  crimson  flesh  which  folded 
above  Into  the  scanty  hair  on  the  nape  of  the  neck. 
The  voice  roared  upwards.  Impregnating  the  air  with 
the  smell  of  brandy. 

Sitting  at  the  table,  reading  the  Liberal  daily,  the 
Monitor,  his  back  slightly  turned  upon  the  group,  sat 
a  rather  delicate,  refined-looking  man,  his  grey  frock 
coat  caught  slenderly  by  a  silken  catch  at  the  waist. 
His  grey  eyes  were  slightly  knitted.    Everything  about 


118  DEMOCRACY 

this  man  was  in  place,  Destin  noting  the  tie  of  dark 
green  silk  with  the  Mexican  fire  opal  in  it,  his  neat 
glazed  double  collar,  and  the  exquisitely  fitting  clothes. 

Afterwards  he  learned  that  he  was  Mr.  Ellerton 
Muschamp,  philanthropist  and  colliery  owner,  who 
was  distinguished  by  an  incredible  meanness  to  his 
employees  and  an  unfathomable  purse  for  charity. 
Muschamp  had  founded  half  a  dozen  homes  for  lost 
girls  and  was  a  professing  Christian,  being  laughed 
at  behind  his  back  by  his  fellows  for  his  pains  as  a 
"Methody."  But  they  all  respected  one  of  the  most 
acute  business  brains  in  England. 

Sir  James  came  slowly  to  the  head  of  the  table, 
balancing  his  gold  glasses  in  his  hand  and  smiling 
largely  around  him.  "I  think,  gentlemen,  we  might 
start.  It  has  gone  ten,  and  you  know  my  motto — I 
believe  in  punctuality.  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to 
begin  without  Mr.  Creegan  and  Mr.  Goldbeater." 

"I  don't  think  you  will.  Sir  James,"  said  a  voice 
near  the  door.  Nobody  had  seen  the  man  entering 
who  had  spoken. 

At  first  sight  there  was  something  intolerably  com- 
monplace about  Richard  Goldbeater,  K.C.,  M.P.,  and 
railway  director.  He  looked  the  average  man  —  so 
much  so  that  witnesses  in  the  law  courts  told  him  all 
sorts  of  things  in  the  box  as  one  man  would  tell  some- 
thing to  another — for  everyone  likes  the  average  man. 

He  was  of  average  height.  His  sweeping  morning 
coat,  which  enveloped  his  comfortable  average  cor- 
poration, though  beautifully  cut,  was  an  average  coat. 
His  collar  and  his  tie  were  the  kind  of  collar  and  tie 
which  can  never  be  recalled  afterwards.  The  silk  hat 
which  he  held  in  his  hand  was  an  average  hat,  well 
polished.    Only  his  boots,  which  were  long  and  slen- 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  119 

der  and  square-toed,  were  noticeable — perhaps  because 
he  always  got  his  boots  in  Paris. 

The  head,  round  and  porcine,  was  an  average  head, 
the  features  nondescript,  from  the  short,  rather  irregu- 
lar nose  to  the  jaw.  The  eyes  might  have  been  of  any 
colour. 

Then  he  smiled,  as  he  came  to  the  table,  and  the 
whole  man  had  changed. 

The  eyes  had  sunk  almost  out  of  sight  in  the  heavy 
cheek-folds,  slanting  either  side  in  his  head.  The 
mouth  had  closed  and  also  disappeared.  Even  the 
tiny  ears  had  become  invisible.  But  the  jaw,  till  now 
unnoticeable,  had  broadened  like  that  of  a  constrictor 
in  the  act  of  deglutition. 

Destin  felt  that  he  had  seen  this  man  before,  and 
recently.  He  turned  instinctively  to  the  Chinese  joss. 
The  man  coming  to  the  table  was  the  joss.  There  was 
something  porcine,  but  sleuthy  about  him.  Something 
that  to  him  at  least  was  utterly  un-moral.  Something 
that  appalled  him,  as  Damascene  had  appalled  him — 
only  that  he  was  frightened  too. 

The  little  plump  white  hand  went  out  quickly  to  Sir 
James.  The  figure  turned  like  a  globe,  bent  across 
the  table  as  far  as  it  could  and  shook  Steltham's  hand 
with  courteous  warmth — "Glad  to  meet  you  again,  Mr. 
Steltham."  Then  to  the  other  men  on  Steltham's  side 
of  the  table,  to  whom  he  bowed  collectively  but  indi- 
vidually— with  a  bland  "Good  morning,  gentlemen." 
To  Goring  and  the  others  he  nodded.  There  was  a 
vacant  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table  next  to  Mus- 
champ.  He  slipped  into  it  as  though  it  had  been 
greased. 

The  others  came  up  to  the  table  still  laughing  at 
Goring's  story.    Muschamp  peered  through  his  pince' 


120  DEMOCRACY 

nes  around  the  table,  and  said — "As  I  am  sure  neither 
side  wishes  to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  other, 
I  propose  Sir  James  Bulkley  as  Chairman."  Sir 
James  took  the  raised  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

As  he  was  sitting  down,  Creegan  came  in,  the  points 
of  his  flannel  collar  caught  closely  under  his  tie  by  a 
thin  bar  of  Connemara  marble.  He  nodded  curtly  to 
his  own  men  and  sat  down  in  the  last  chair  on  the 
men's  side  of  the  table,  putting  his  sweeping,  conical 
hat,  with  the  deep  cleft,  on  the  table  before  him. 

"We  are  just  starting,  Creegan,"  said  Belch  amica- 
bly and  a  little  nervously.  Belch  had  slipped  into  his 
place  the  moment  before. 

"Who's  the  chairman?"  said  Creegan. 

"Sir  James  Bulkley,  the  arbitrator,  of  course,  Mr. 
Creegan,"  smiled  Goldbeater.  "You*  weren't  thinking 
of  taking  the  chair  yourself,  were  you?"  He  smiled 
sweetly. 

Creegan's  face  was  suffused.  "I  object,"  he  said 
shortly. 

"But,  my  dear  Mr.  Creegan,  Sir  James  Is  the  arbi- 
trator." There  was  immense  patronage  in  Goldbeat- 
er's voice. 

"I  won't  have  one  of  the  master-class  in  the  chair," 
said  Creegan  sullenly. 

*'You  wont.  You  won't.  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Cree- 
gan, there  are  others  besides  you  to  be  considered. 
Again  he  smiled. 

"I  object,"  repeated  Creegan  doggedly.  The  men 
by  his  side  looked  shocked,  especially  the  miners, 
whilst  Steltham  said — "Mr.  Creegan,  I  fear,  has  little 
knowledge  of  arbitration  boards.  Surely  he  must 
know  that  an  arbitrator  belongs  to  no  class,  represent- 
ing as  he  does  the  rights  of  all  classes." 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  121 

"Never  mind  what  knowledge  I  have,  or  haven't, 
Steltham,''  said  Creegan,  scowling.  Goldbeater  smiled 
indulgently.  Goring  looked  apoplectic.  The  others 
politely  deaf. 

"If  my  election  is  not  unanimous,  I  will  have  noth- 
ing further  to  do  with  the  proceedings,"  said  Sir 
James  quietly.  "If  you  think  I  am  not  honest  enough 
to  hold  the  chair  impartially,  Mr.  Creegan,  I  am  sorry, 
but  I  can  go." 

Creegan  was  silent.  He  looked  like  a  sulky  boy. 
But  he  scowled  something  which  might  have  been 
acquiescence  or  dissent. 

"As  there  now  appears  to  be  no  further  objection, 
Sir  James,"  said  Goldbeater,  who  had  been  watching 
Steltham  fingering  his  notes,  "I  propose  that  we  get 
to  business.  I  have  jotted  down  here  a  few  rough 
notes  for  an  agenda  to  save  time.  I  think  the  gentle- 
men present  will  find  it  covers  the  points  at  issue 
fairly." 

The  chairman  took  the  paper,  which  was  typed,  and 
after  glancing  it  over  said — "I  think  it  puts  the  points 
fairly.     But  I  will  read  them  out: 

"i.  Whether  drunkenness  of  engine  drivers  off  duty 
is  a  matter  of  public  safety  and  therefore  of  reinstate- 
ment. 

"2.  Wages  and  hours  of  the  dockers. 

"3.  The  general  conditions  of  the  railwaymen. 

"4.  Prices  for  'difficult  places*  for  miners. 

"5.  Whether  a  further  increase  should  be  granted 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  wages  on  the  average  have 
risen  twenty  per  cent,  within  the  last  ten  years." 

Steltham  said  that  he  also  had  jotted  down  a  few 
rough  notes,  and  looked  a  little  upset  when  Bulkley 


122  DEMOCRACY 

suggested  that  unless  they  brought  in  other  issues,  they 
had  better  confine  themselves  to  the  agenda  before 
him. 

Steltham  replied  quietly  and  courteously — "I  am 
afraid  I  shall  have  to  follow  my  friend  Mr.  Creegan 
and  say  *I  object.'  " 

"But  surely  those  are  the  points  at  issue,  Mr. 
Steltham?'' 

"They  may  be,  but  I  think  they  might  be  put 
differently." 

"How  would  you  state  them?" 

"This  is  not  a  question  of  Bingley.  It  is  a  question 
purely  of  wages  and  hours." 

"Bingley's  the  red  herring,"  said  Creegan  coarsely. 

"I  don't  think  we  need  cry  'stinking  fish'  yet  a  bit," 
said  Mr.  Muschamp.  "I  for  one  am  quite  willing  to 
make  it  a  question  more  or  less  of  wages  and  hours." 

"Good  God!  Muschamp— what  are  you  saying?" 
burst  out  Goring.  "You  know  we  settled  all  that 
long  .  .  ."  He  broke  off.  Muschamp  was  looking 
at  him  serenely. 

"Oh!  is  that  it,  gentlemen?"  inserted  Steltham. 
"You  had  the  whole  thing  cut  and  dry  before,  you 
came  in." 

"Dash  it  all,  Steltham!"  interposed  Belch,  indig- 
nantly, "I  suppose  they  have  as  much  right  to  meet 
as  we." 

Creegan  looked  at  him. 

Goring  was  apoplectic  again.  As  Belch  had  said, 
they  had  as  much  right  to  meet  as  anyone  else,  but 
everyone,  including  the  arbitrator,  looked  as  though 
they  had  been  children  caught  stealing  apples.  Even 
Cathcart  held  himself  a  little  more  rigidly  in  his  chair. 

The  two  miners  who  had  come  in  first  and  Manby, 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  123 

who  was  one  of  the  railwaymen's  representatives, 
stared  at  the  chairman,  bewildered. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  asked  Manby.  "For  my 
part,  I  think  Mr.  Belch  has  put  it  about  right." 

"Very  well,  gentlemen,  if  you  are  agreed,  I  suggest 
that  for  the  moment  we  hold  the  agenda  over,"  said 
Sir  James. 

"First  blood!"  said  Steltham  under  his  breath. 

"We  had  better  start  with  an  informal,  friendly 
discussion  so  as  to  get  roughly  at  the  points  at  issue, 
with  a  statement  of  the  case  from  each  side.  Who 
will  open?" 

"I  am  sure  I  am  speaking  for  my  colleagues  when 
I  say  that  the  advantage  of  first  speaking  should  lie 
with  the  gentlemen  on  the  other  side  of  the  table." 
Goldbeater  was  exquisitely  polite. 

"Good!  good!  Goldbeater  knows  his  business," 
said  one  of  the  shipowners  to  his  neighbour. 

But  to  the  surprise  of  some  of  his  colleagues,  Stel- 
tham would  not  have  it.  "I  do  not  wish  Labour  to 
be  behindhand  in  the  courtesies  of  life.  Let  one  of 
you  gentlemen  speak  first." 

To  Destin,  watching,  it  seemed  that  out  of  the 
bunch  of  men  there,  the  two  men  that  mattered  were 
Steltham  and  Goldbeater — with  perhaps  Creegan  in 
the  background,  but  remote.  They  were  saluting  be- 
fore making  play  with  the  rapiers  of  argument.  Nor 
could  he  help  noticing  how  ill  at  ease  some  of  the 
labour  men  looked.  They  moved  uncomfortably  in 
their  chairs.  Before  the  urbanity  of  the  Masters  they 
showed  up  badly. 

"I  suggest,  gentlemen,  to  save  time,  that  Labour 
speaks  first,  as  it  first  took  the  offensive,"  said  the 
chairman. 


124  DEMOCRACY 

To  this  Steltham  had  no  reply.  So  he  got  to  his 
feet,  his  face  more  craggy  than  ever,  the  smile  dark- 
ening in  his  eyes.    He  commenced  in  even  tones: 

"I  am  perfectly  sure,  and  my  colleagues  are  per- 
fectly sure,  that  the  gentlemen  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table  have  met  us  in  the  Jhonest  determination  to 
find  a  way  out  of  the  dreadful  impasse  in  which  we 
find  ourselves,  and  indeed  to  do  justice  to  Labour's 
claims  if  those  claims  can  be  substantiated."  It  was 
Steltham's  well-known  pacifist  introduction. 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  growled  Creegan. 

"Of  course  I  except  Mr.  Creegan,"  said  Steltham, 
the  smile  darkening  again  in  his  eyes.  "Mr.  Creegan 
is  always  the  exception." 

A  little  smile  ran  from  face  to  face  amongst  the 
Masters.  It  flickered  a  ipoment  and  went  out.  Stel- 
th9,m  had  seen  it,  and  he  gripped  the  lapels  of  his 
coat  tightly. 

"But  I  should  be  sorry,"  he  went  on,  "if  there  were 
any  misapprehension  on  this  matter.  Mr.  Creegan 
and  I  stand  side  by  side  in  this  fight — stand  for  a 
common  object."  The  words  were  addressed  to  the 
chairman,  but  the  glance  went  out  to  Goldbeater,  who, 
however,  was  smiling  to  his  neighbour  as  though  he 
were  not  listening. 

In  a  statement,  in  which  there  was  not  a  super- 
fluous word,  in  which  each  fact  dovetailed  into  its 
predecessor,  Steltham  outlined  dispassionately  the  po- 
sition of  the  three  principal  unions  involved.  "Over 
one  million  and  a  half  of  men  out  .  .  ."  "indus- 
try paralysed  ...  . "  "the  dreadful  threat  of  the 
future." 

The  words  came  evenly  and  coldly,  but,  as  he 
passed  from  the  statement  of  the  position  of  the  indi- 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  125 

vidual  unions  and  the  question  of  wages  and  hours 
involved,  to  the  growing  federation  of  these  unions, 
showing  how  resistlessly  the  work  of  federation  went 
on  day  and  night,  his  statement  took  a  higher  note. 
It  was  still  smooth  and  resistless  as  a  flowing  tide,  but 
underneath,  it  held  the  rumble  and  threat  of  the  flood 
to  come.  .  .  .  "Yesterday  it  was  the  individual 
union  battling  for  life  against  the  overwhelming  power 
of  capital.  To-day  it  is  the  linking  up  of  inter-de- 
pendent trades,  as  we  have  federated  the  Miners,  the 
Railwaymen,  and  the  Dockers  for  defensive  action. 
To-morrow  .  .  .  ?"  he  stopped.  But  now  the  smile 
had  passed  from  Richard  Goldbeater's  face — the  eyes 
and  ears  had  emerged  again.  The  men  by  his  side  were 
tense.    Goring  alone  was  spluttering  and  eruptive. 

"But  it  is  not  the  wish  of  Labour  to  bring  this 
tremendous  engine  into  action.  We  hold  that  matters 
like  the  present  are  for  the  Conciliation  Board  and 
the  House  of  Commons — ^not  for  primeval  weapons 
and  primeval  passions."  The  voice  had  become  con- 
ciliatory once  more. 

It  had  sunk,  Destin  noticed,  but  there  was  nothing 
of  the  anti-climax  about  it  as  he  passed  on  to  his  final 
thrust. 

"Nor  do  we  wish  to  destroy  the  rights  of  the 
Minority  by  sheer  dead  weight.  We  wish  to  respect 
minority  rights.  For  no  man  in  this  room,  and,  least 
of  all,  Mr.  Richard  Goldbeater,  who  knows  the  posi- 
tion intimately,  as  he  showed  in  his  recent  evidence 
before  the  Royal  Commission  upon  Labour  Unrest, 
will  deny  that  Demos  holds  the  last  word.  When 
everything  is  said  and  done,  Demos  the  voter  can 
outvote  Capital  the  voter  at  the  polls.  If  the  present 
Government  wish  to  invite  certain  disaster"  (here  he 


126  DEMOCRACY 

looked  steadfastly  at  Goldbeater  and  Muschamp)  "they 
will  refuse  to  consider  the  claims  of  labour.  It  is 
literally  true  that  the  fate  of  the  Government,  which, 
after  all,  in  the  greater  sense,  as  a  Capitalist  Govern- 
ment, has  the  interests  of  both  Liberal  and  Conserva- 
tive in  its  hands,  lies  with  the  gentlemen  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table.  The  General  Election  is  not  far 
off — ^the  reply  of  Demos  at  that  election  will  hang 
upon  the  results  of  the  present  conference.  I  make 
no  threats;  I  am  simply  pointing  out  the  logical  se- 
quence of  cause  and  effect." 

Creegan  sat  hunched  over  the  table,  driving  deep 
holes  into  the  sheet  of  blotting  paper  before  him  with 
a  pencil.  Muschamp  was  writing  rapidly.  Cathcart 
sat  looking  stiffly  before  him  like  an  aristocratic 
mummy.    Goldbeater  was  smiling. 

Destin,  looking  on  from  where  he  sat  at  the  end 
of  the  table  taking  a  shorthand  precis  of  Steltham's 
argument,  felt  that  it  was  what  he  called  "a  water- 
tight case."  He  could  not  conceive  any  effective  re- 
ply. But  he  was  indignant  at  the  studious  restraint 
of  the  speaker — ^at  what  Creegan  would  call  "truck- 
ling to  the  priests  of  Baal,"  whilst  the  blank  unre- 
sponsiveness of  Cathcart,  the  stolidity  of  the  masters, 
excepting  Goring,  whose  face  had  grown  more  threat- 
ening from  minute  to  minute,  and  beyond  all  else  the 
sleepy  smile  of  Goldbeater,  unnerved  him. 

Put  it  to  himself  how  he  would,  there  was  an  air 
of  sureness,  of  command — call  it  tradition,  or  heredity, 
or  what  you  would — which  conjured  up  to  him  a  dead 
wall  impossible  of  climbing  over  or  battering  down. 
For  a  moment,  as  he  glanced  at  Creegan,  driving 
deeply  into  the  blotting  paper,  he  faltered  in  doubt 
even  of  his  own  beloved  direct  action. 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  127 

Goldbeater  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  reply.  He  sat 
there  smiling  sleepily  and  probing  his  teeth  through 
his  closed  lips  with  a  gold  tortoise-shell  toothpick. 
Yet  everybody  was  looking  at  him.  It  was  not  boast- 
fulness — it  was  certainty — that  sureness  which  in  the 
prize  ring  as  in  the  strike  Creegan  had  always  said 
was  half  the  battle. 

Sir  James  was  asking  for  a  representative  of  Capi- 
tal to  reply.  Muschamp  was  nodding  to  Goldbeater, 
who  at  last  rose  to  his  feet. 

"It  seems  that  I  am  expected  to  reply,"  he  said. 
"Yet,  if  Mr.  Steltham  will  let  me  say  so,  I  don't  think 
there  is  anything  to  reply  to,  for  the  argument  we 
have  heard  was  to  a  certain  extent  partly  a  statement 
of  facts,  which  I  for  one  should  not  attempt  to  chal- 
lenge, partly  baseless  assumption,  partly  rhetoric,  and 
partly,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  threat,  despite  the  final 
repudiation.  There  is,  however,  a  happy  augury  in  its 
moderation  of  tone,  though  not  of  statement,  for  the 
result  of  our  deliberations. 

"Let  m.e  reciprocate  from  this  side  of  the  table  Mr. 
Steltham*s  opening  statement  about  our  honest  wish 
to  find  a  way  out;  but,  whilst  reciprocating  it  fully, 
let  me  also  say  that  it  is  not  the  Masters  who  have 
to  find  a.  way  out,  but  the  Men. 

"It  is  peculiarly  unpleasant  for  my  colleagues  to 
have  to  point  to  inexorable  circumstance,  but  it  is 
not  we  who  have  created  the  present  situation,  by 
locking  out  the  men,  but  the  men  who  have  come  out. 

"What  are  the  facts?  I  noticed  that  Mr.  Steltham 
most  carefully  abstained  from  stating  the  origin  of 
the  present  strike. 

"An  engine  driver  is  found  drunk  off  duty  and  is 
suspended.    It  may  be  claimed,  as  he  does  claim,  that 


128  DEMOCRACY 

when  a  man  is  off  duty  he  can  do  what  he  likes  with 
his  time — ^but  is  it  so?  Is  it  not  the  merest  sophistry 
to  say  so?  The  companies  are  responsible  for  the 
safety  of  the  public,  of  whom,  in  common  with  their 
employees,  they  are  the  servants.  The  man  who  gets 
drunk  off  duty  is  likely  to  get  drunk  on  duty,  or  to 
go  drunk  to  his  duty.  That  means  murder  on  the 
railways.  To  back  such  a  strike,  call  it  'sympathetic* 
or  what  you  will,  is  to  preach  murder  indirectly,  but 
none  the  less — murder. 

"Again,  however  distasteful  it  may  be,  let  us  deal 
with  inexorable  fact — for  it  is  fact,  and  not  sentiment, 
that  will,  I  believe,  kill  the  'sympathetic*  strike. 

"Mr.  Steltham  has  spoken  of  the  strength  of  the 
position  of  the  three  unions  involved — of  their  un- 
limited war-chests — of  their  unity.  I  fear  that  Mr. 
Steltham  is  not  so  sure  of  his  facts  as  we  are  of 
ours.  There  are  not  over  a  million  and  a  half  of 
men  out,  but,  at  the  end  of  last  week,  a  little  over 
one  million  two  hundred  thousand.  (Will  he  kindly 
note  the  figures,  as  the  information  may  prove  use- 
ful.)" The  speaker  was  smiling  blandly.  "Then,  so 
far  as  the  war-chests  are  concerned,  the  less  said  the 
better. 

"If  he  would  like  me  to  give  him  the  figures,  I 
shall  be  happy  to  do  so,  but  it  is  sufficient  here  to 
say  that  during  the  last  series  of  strikes  the  Miners 
alone  lost  twelve  million  pounds  in  wages  and  out  of 
work  pay,  the  Dockers  were  decimated,  whilst  the 
Railwaymen,  I  fancy,  are  not  anxious  for  a  prolonged 
trial  of  strength."  He  glanced  along  the  men  whom 
he  addressed.  Some  of  them  moved  uneasily  in  their 
seats,  but  Westerley  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"I  see  that  Mr.  Westerley  doubts  my  figures.    He 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  129 

doubts  them  though  he  well  knows  that  in  the  balance 
sheet  he  took  out  last  week  for  his  executive,  it 
showed  that  his  Union  had  in  hand  something  imder 
twenty  thousand  pounds."  Westerley  had  stopped 
laughing. 

"But  enough  of  that.  Let  me  come  to  the  non- 
combatants,  who  in  this  class-war — I  use  Mr.  Cree- 
gan's  favourite  term" — Goldbeater  was  smiling  again 
— "as  in  all  other  wars,  are  the  chief  sufferers. 
Frankly,"  and  his  face  grew  serious  again,  "we  don't 
like  the  misery  to  which  this  impossible  strike  is  sub- 
jecting the  women  and  children.  But  if  the  struggle 
turns  upon  what  I  may  term  the  *war-chest,'  as  it  does, 
and  it  is  Mr.  Steltham,  not  I,  who  has  introduced  this 
issue,  I  think  my  friend,  if  he  will  let  me  call  him  so, 
my  friend,  Mr.  Steltham,  will  see  with  the  sanity 
which  has  always  distinguished  him,  which  side  can 
hold  out  the  longer.  Because  the  coldest  winter  for 
many  years  is  with  us — the  children  are  crying  for 
bread — the  women  for  those  comforts  which  can  make 
life,  liveable. 

"But  to  get  this  bread  and  those  comforts,  the  men 
must  have  work.  We  alone,  I  fear,  can  give  them 
that  work.  However  unpleasant  or  grotesque  it  may 
seem  to  my  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
we  own  the  land  and  the  machinery.  Our  society  of 
to-day  is  founded  on  the  principle  of  private  property. 
These  are  facts. 

"Now  I  am  not  going  to  make  any  threats.  I  don't 
believe  in  threats ;  but  again,  what  are  the  facts  ?  Mr. 
Steltham  has  alluded  to  the  gradual  linking  up  of  the 
men's  unions  into  national  federation  by  trade,  and 
of  individual  trades  where  they  are  interdependent, 
foreshadowing  the  day  when  in  Great  Britain  there 


130  DEMOCRACY 

will  be  but  one  union — in  his  own  words,  *a  tremen- 
dous engine  of  warfare.' 

"Pending  the  time  when  the  creation  of  such  anti- 
social weapons  may  be  dealt  with  as  menaces  to  so- 
ciety— and  I  am  glad  he  has  so  plainly  laid  his  cards 
on  the  arbitration  table,  for  it  opens  our  eyes  to  the 
creation  of  a  tyranny  which  we  never  suspected"  (he 
was  speaking  reprovingly  as  a  father  might  speak  to 
a  naughty  child)  —  "might  I  ask  him  whether  he 
knows  anything  of  the  Unions  of  Masters  and  their 
federation  ? 

"Let  us  get  the  facts  again."  (Here  once  more  was 
that  passion  for  facts  which  Destin  found  dominated 
this  conference  as  it  dominated  everything  else.) 

"There  are  to-day  in  Great  Britain  between  one 
and  two  thousand  Unions  of  Masters,  and  they  out- 
number those  of  the  Men. 

"He  speaks  of  giant  federations.  What  of  our  fed- 
erations?   Let  me  take  one  as  an  example  of  the  rest. 

"The  shipbuilders  are  to-day  federated  into  the 
Shipping  Trust,  which  in  Great  Britain  holds  in  its 
hands  tens  of  thousands  of  lives  and  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  tons  of  shipping  —  and,  to  go  outside 
Britain,  internationally,  holds  millions  of  lives  and 
millions  of  tons  of  shipping.  The  coal  owners  and 
many  other  interests  are  federated  in  the  same  way. 
It  is  regrettable,  but  federation  begets  federation — 
force  begets  force.  It  is  Labour  which  has  appealed 
to  force.  It  is  Labour  which  has  thrown  down  the 
gauntlet — ^not  we. 

"And  this  word  'force'  brings  me  to  one  of  Mr. 
Steltham's  threats,  the  main  argument  of  Mr.  Stel- 
tham,  which  was  from  beginning  to  end  an  appeal  to 
force.     He  realised  the  very  unpleasant  fact  that  all 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  131 

argument  ultimately  rests  on  force."  ("That's  it," 
said  Goring  deeply.)  "We  have  the  ballot  to  avoid 
the  bullet  —  Parliament  and  the  arbitration  table  to 
save  the  barricade  and  the  noose.  If  we  Masters  were 
the  tyrants  we  are  represented  to  be,  we  should  not 
trouble  the  arbitration  table  and  the  law  courts — we 
should  call  into  action  the  forces  behind  Society. 

"But  all  that  has  been  unwillingly  dragged  from 
me  and  is  only  given  in  refutation  of  some  of  Mr. 
Steltham*s  assumptions. 

"The  gentleman  who  preceded  me  has  shown  a  very 
nice  consideration  for  the  Government.  I  for  one  was 
under  the  impression  that  he  was  an  enemy  of  the 
Government,  though  I  have  always  noticed  when  it 
comes  to  the  pinch,  he  and  his  party  usually  support 
us  in  the  division  lobby.  However  that  may  be,  I 
congratulate  him  upon  his  perspicacity  in  what  I  take 
to  be  his  foreseeing  of  the  time  when  there  will  pos- 
sibly be  no  longer  the  Liberal,  the  Tory,  and  the 
Workers'  Parties,  but  only  two — the  Socialist  and  the 
anti-Socialist.  (Something  incidentally  which  throws 
a  new  light  upon  his  wish  to  protect  the  Liberal  Gov- 
ernment, for  the  throwing  out  of  that  Government 
would  expedite  the  very  combination  he  fears. )  When 
that  combination  comes,  and  it  has  already  been  fore- 
shadowed at  the  great  Magog  meeting  in  the  spring 
of  this  year,  then  we  shall  be  able  to  deal  with  mili- 
tant Trades  Unionism  as  it  should  be  dealt  with.  Like 
Mr.  Steltham,  I  make  no  threats;  I  am  only  pointing 
out  the  logical  sequence  of  cause  and  effect." 

And  Goldbeater  sat  down,  still  with  that  gentle 
suavity. 

Destines  pen,  taking  down  the  gist  of  the  speech, 
stopped.    The  room  had  grown  unbearably  close.    He 


132  DEMOCRACY 

felt  a  sense  of  strangulation.  Creegan  below  him 
clutched  at  his  throat  as  though  he  too  were  strug- 
ghng  to  breathe.  "Direct  Action."  "Direct  Action." 
The  words  danced  on  the  sheet  before  him.  They 
looked  ridiculous. 

The  discussion  was  carried  on  by  the  two  miners 
and  a  couple  of  colliery  owners  in  amicable  fashion. 
The  tension  that  had  followed  Goldbeater  was  yield- 
ing. It  seemed  as  though  the  whole  dispute  could  be 
arranged  there  and  then,  and  when  Muschamp  fol- 
lowed with  a  sort  of  nunc  dimittis,  in  which  he  said 
pontifically — "The  Great  Arbiter  has  seen  fit  to  de- 
liver the  keys  of  Society  into  our  hands.  We  take 
them  as  a  trust.  We  recognise  our  duties  to  Labour, 
and  we  only  ask  that  in  return  Labour  shall  recognise 
its  duties  not  only  to  itself  but  to  Society" — ^he  felt 
that  the  whole  m^atter  was  as  good  as  settled.  The 
miners  were  obviously  impressed. 

Destin  recognised  in  him  as  in  Courcy  that  same 
steadfast  belief  in  the  divine  right  of  Capital:  his 
honest  regret  at  the  unavoidable  misery  of  the  strike. 
It  was  Benevolent  Bureaucracy  speaking  to  its  erring 
children.  But  behind  it  also,  the  same  implacability 
— the  same  sureness  of  purpose  —  the  spirit  that 
shrinks  at  nothing  necessary  to  the  fulfilment  of  that 
purpose. 

Bulkley  alone  looked  from  face  to  face  with  appre- 
hension. The  Sabbath  evening  in  heaven  calm  did  not 
appear  to  impress  him. 

Through  all  this,  Sir  Gilbert  Goring  had  been 
shuffling  his  feet.  Several  times  he  had  tried  to  speak, 
but  always  Muschamp  or  Goldbeater  whispered  to  him 
or  passed  him  a  twist  of  paper.  Now,  as  Muschamp 
sat  down,  he  erupted  at  his  side. 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  133 

Bulkley  was  looking  hard  at  him,  his  brows  slightly 
knitted.  Muschamp  was  speaking  upwards  to  him. 
Even  Goldbeater  was  frowning  a  little. 

The  voice  was  thin  and  high  like  steam  overdriven 
through  a  tiny  escape  pipe.  Inarticulate  at  first,  it 
gathered  strength. 

He  rambled  for  a  few  sentences  in  an  endeavor  to 
keep  within  the  conventions.  He  was  clawing  the  air 
for  the  right  words.     Then  they  came  torrentially. 

"Let  us  have  no  nonsense  about  this  matter.  Let 
us  talk  as  business  men  to  the  point.  Let  us  say  what 
we  mean."  (Goldbeater  was  frowning  at  him.)  "No, 
Mr.  Goldbeater,  this  is  my  horse  and  I'm  going  to 
ride  him. 

"What  is  this  strike?  It  is  a  strike  for  the  right 
to  get  drunk.  Nothing  more.  All  this  talk  about 
wages  and  hours  is  humbug.  All  this  talk  about 
starving  women  and  children  is  humbug — dishonest 
humbug.  It  is  not  we  who  are  on  our  defence,  but 
Labour.    Labour  is  in  the  dock. 

"Trades  Unionism  has  been  growing  year  by  year — 
growing  into  a  hydra-headed  monster  which  devours 
everything  before  it.  Lop  one  head  —  and  another 
grows  in  its  place.  The  time  has  come  to  call  'halt!' 
First,  it  was  improved  conditions.  Then  reduction  of 
hours.    Then  increase  of  wages. 

"Not  satisfied  with  fighting  the  employers  on  the 
industrial  field,  it  has  now  entered  the  political.  No- 
body knows  where  it  will  stop.  But  it  has  got  to 
stop  right  there. 

^'Threats!  Who  talks  of  threats?"  (He  swung 
round,  looking  squarely  first  at  Steltham  and  then 
Creegan.)     "Argument!     Who  talks  of  argument?" 


134  DEMOCRACY 

The  veins  were  swelling  in  his  head.  His  neck,  em- 
purpled, was  lapping  his  white  collar. 

"There  is  only  one  argument.  Force.  There  is 
only  one  threat  that  is  effective.    Force. 

*Tt  is  not  Labour  that  shall  decide  its  hours  and 
wages — it  is  we.  It  is  not  Labour  that  shall  set  the 
pace — it  is  we.  We  are  in  the  saddle,  and  by  God! 
we  shall  ride  the  horse. 

"We  own  the  means  of  life,  as  Mr.  Creegan  has  it 
in  his  jargon.  We  have  behind  us  the  triple  engines 
of  the  State — ^the  army,  navy  and  police.  Who  con- 
trols those  three  engines  ?    Is  it  the  Unions  ?    Pah ! 

"When  we  give  the  word,  we  shall  settle  this  mat- 
ter in  our  own  way.  We  shall  settle  it — ^not  at  the 
arbitration  table — ^but  at  the  barricade  and  with  the 
firing  platoon. 

"You  talk  of  capturing  the  political  machine.  What 
does  the  political  machine  rest  on?  Force.  What 
lies  behind  Westminster  ?  The  bayonets  of  the  British 
Army.  And  by  God!"  (he  struck  the  table  passion- 
ately) "by  God!  we  are  going  to  use  them." 

He  sat  down  abruptly,  the  veins  knotted  in  his  tem- 
ples— ^the  face  and  neck  suffused  —  one  great  hairy 
claw  clenched  before  him  on  the  table.  There  was 
something  cavernous  about  the  man,  something  ele- 
mental. 

The  silence  fell  over  the  table  like  a  shroud.  Gold- 
beater had  ceased  to  smile.  Muschamp  looked  irri- 
tated and  disgusted.  The  miners  had  a  shocked,  child- 
ish astonishment.  Belch  seemed  depressed,  almost 
cowed.  Only  Steltham  smiled  and  bent  over  his 
papers. 

Goldbeater  rose,  angry  lights  in  his  eyes.  "I  chink 
it  only  fair  to  myself  and  my  colleagues  to  say  that 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  135 

we  entirely  dissent  from  Sir  Gilbert  Goring's  remarks, 
which  seem  to  us  unfortunate."    He  sat  down  again. 

But  there  was  one  man  there  who  was  neither  irri- 
tated nor  cowed.  As  Destin  looked  down  the  table, 
he  saw  the  long  keen  nose,  the  grey-blue  eyes,  staring 
at  Goring.  Behind  the  eyes  there  was  a  quiet,  savage 
triumph. 

Creegan  was  on  his  feet.  The  graceful  pillar  of  a 
man  whose  height,  alone  in  that  room,  held  him 
squarely  to  that  of  Goring,  looked  the  natural  cor- 
rective of  the  other — ^the  ascetic,  fanatical  face,  pallid 
now,  a  thin  sweat  on  the  forehead. 

If  Steltham  had  in  his  mind  the  thought  to  stop 
Creegan,  it  passed  from  him  as  quickly  as  it  came. 
Creegan  would  not  be  stopped.  He,  too,  was  ele- 
mental. 

"Thank  God  Almighty  for  Sir  Gilbert  Goring."  It 
was  a  curious  beginning.  Creegan  stared  at  his  man 
as  he  said  it. 

"Thank  God  Almighty  for  Sir  Gilbert  Goring!" 
The  sentence  came  again  like  the  beat  of  a  hammer. 
"Let  us  always  meet  the  mailed  fist  rather  than  the 
velvet  glove.  Sir  Gilbert  has  no  mask.  Now  we  know 
where  we  stand. 

"Whilst  you  gentlemen" — ^he  sneered  along  the  line 
of  his  fellows — "have  been  talking  about  politics,  the 
gentlemen  opposite  have  been  forging  guns.  Whilst 
you  palavered,  they  prepared.  It  is  the  vindication 
of  direct  action." 

He  turned  to  his  colleagues.  "What  is  your  answer 
going  to  be?  Are  ye  going  to  be  after  talking  pretty 
nothingness  to  the  other  gentlemen?  Are  ye  going 
to  talk  about  voting  yourselves  into  power?  Are  ye 
going  to  boast  of  your  big  vote  battalions,  when  you 


136  DEMOCRACY- 

know,  full  well,  in  the  heart  of  ye,  that  half  your  army 
are  Liberal  asses  in  Socialist  skins?  Are  ye  going  to 
Westminster  cap  in  hand  to  ask  the  Masters  for  the 
love  of  God  to  let  you  rule  by  the  ballot,  when  they 
mean  to  rule  by  the  bullet? 

"Can  ye  doubt  it?  There  is  one  man,  besides  Sir 
Gilbert,  who  has  no  doubt  anyhow.  Mr.  Goldbeater. 
Whilst  Mr.  Steltham,  who  may  know  something  of 
arbitration  tables,  but  nothing  of  the  facts  behind 
them,  has  been  fluttering  his  ballot  paper  in  the  face 
of  Capital,  Capital  has  held  the  Big  Stick  over  his 
head,  ready  to  knock  out  his  brains  and  the  brains  of 
the  ballot  for  which  he  stands.  Of  course,  Mr.  Stel- 
tham's  speech  was  a  threat — ^but  what  a  threat!  My 
God! 

"Let  us  tear  away  the  mask.  Take  away  the  smile 
from  Mr.  Goldbeater's  face,  and  what  lies  behind? 
Sheer,  brute  force.  He  says — 'Spend  your  years  get- 
ting the  ballot,  and  when  youVe  got  it,  use  it  ...  if 
you're  able.'    The  Big  Stick. 

"Where  they  can't  bluff  us,  they'll  bludgeon  us. 
Where  they  can't  chloroform  us  in  the  Courts — the 
judge  to-day  is  the  surgeon  for  capital — they'll  use 
the  stick.  Every  man  here  knows  that  the  decisions 
of  the  Courts  for  the  past  five  years  have  tied  us  hand 
and  foot.  The  judge  is  above  the  law — ^above  Parlia- 
ment itself.  No  one  of  us  knows  what  we  can  or 
cannot  do. 

"  The  right  to  get  drunk.'  Is  there  a  man  here 
who  doesn't  know  that  there  isn't  a  man  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  but  claims  the  right  to  get  drunk 
how  and  when  he  likes.  Is  there  a  man  here  that 
doesn't  know  that,  rather  than  lose  the  strike,  the 
gentlemen  opposite,  for  all  their  fine  talk  about  the 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  137 

women  and  children,  would  send  them  to  hell?  Do 
you  think  that  the  men  who  have  their  spies  honey- 
combing our  Unions,  who  can  give  us  our  balance 
sheets  better  than  we  can  do  it  ourselves,  will  stop  at 
such  a  trifle  as  the  murder  of  women — ^always  allow- 
ing that  it  is  murder  in  uniform? 

"And  if  our  peacemakers  like  Mr.  Steltham  want 
any  other  proof,  they  have  it  in  the  fact  that  every 
word  used  by  the  previous  speakers  showed  that  Capi- 
talism is  in  the  saddle  and  that  Capitalism  means  to 
ride  the  horse.  It  is  for  that  they  are  putting  the 
strangle-hold  on  the  Unions — it  is  for  that  the  em- 
ployers' federation  chain  is  being  forged — it  is  for 
that  they  hold  in  the  background  the  noiseless  steel 
and  the  bullet — 'the  noose  and  the  barricade'  as  Mr. 
Goldbeater  put  it. 

"If  any  doubt  could  have  been  left,  it  was  removed 
by  Sir  Gilbert  Goring.  He  stands  for  that  gospel  of 
force  which  every  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  table 
backs  either  consciously  or  unconsciously.  Sir  Gilbert 
believes,  likes  Nietszche,  that  there  are  but  two  classes 
— ^the  Master  and  the  Slave — and  with  him  he  believes 
that  one  has  the  divine  right — the  other,  no  rights. 
Mr.  Muschamp  in  his  way  believes  the  same  thing. 
Will  ye  tell  me  where  is  the  need  of  talking? 

"That  means  one  thing — the  return  of  Man  to  the 
abyss  from  which  he  has  crawled  during  the  ages. 
That  means  that  this  matter  is  to  be  settled  by  force, 
and  by  force  alone.  That  means  we  must  meet  force 
by  force  and  not  by  talk  if  civilisation  itself  is  to  be 
saved. 

"It  is,  I  say,  the  vindication  of  'direct  action.' 

"This  is  no  question  of  wages  and  hours — of  a  man 
being  drunk  or  not  being  drunk.    It  means  something 


138  DEMOCRACY 

deep — ineradicable.  Something  that  the  ages  have 
seen — the  battle  between  right  and  might — between 
light  and  darkness — between  two  opposing  forces — 
two  policies  which  Heaven  itself  cannot  reconcile. 
What  the  slave  fought  for  under  the  Roman  emperors 
— what  the  revolt  of  the  serf  meant — this  new  revolt 
under  capitalism  means  also.  Lefs  cut  the  cackle  and 
get  to  business.  Let's  look  this  bloody  thing  in  the 
maw.  ^ 

"Labour  has  flung  down  the  gauntlet  to  Society. 
Society  is  taking  it  up.  And  for  what  has  it  flung 
down  the  gauntlet? 

"It  has  thrown  it  down  for  the  prostitute  and  the 
man  clogged  to  the  earth — for  the  oppression  of  race 
by  race  and  of  colour  by  colour — it  has  thrown  it  down 
to  declare  that  the  White  shall  not  oppress  the  Black 
and  the  Yellow,  that  in  the  biggest  and  best  sense  all 
men  are  equal.  It  is  throwing  it  down  not  only  for 
the  sweated  matchbox-maker  in  the  east  of  London, 
but  for  the  sweated  peasant  in  India.  It  is  a  gauntlet 
flung  down,  not  by  men  of  the  White  Races  only,  but 
by  their  brothers  of  the  Yellow  Races  in  China  and 
Japan  and  by  the  Brown  Man  in  India.  It  is  an  Arma- 
geddon— in  which  the  fight  is  to  the  finish. 

"Sir  Gilbert  Goring  and  his  kind  are  prepared  to 
drench  Britain  in  blood  to  win  this  strike.  I  go  far- 
ther. We  are  prepared  to  drench  the  world.  He  is 
prepared  to  set  brother  against  brother — we  are  pre- 
pared to  go  farther — to  set  child  against  mother — ^the 
coming  generation  against  the  present.  If  there  is  to 
be  a  blood-drench — let  it  come  and  quickly. 

"  'Right  to  get  drunk.'  'Difficult  places.'  Wages 
and  hours.' 

"Something  deeper  far.     Something  that  neither 


MASTERS  AND  MEN  139 

time  nor  perhaps  eternity  can  efface — a  chasm  that  can- 
not be  bridged — the  battle  of  two  opposing  principles 
— of  an  intensity  of  hate  which  has  no  counterpart  on 
the  earth — of  night  and  darkness — of  heaven  and 
hell." 

In  the  days  that  followed,  through  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  argument — through  Belches  strange  silences 
— Destin  could  hear  those  words — "the  battle  of 
principles  .  .  ."  "an  intensity  of  hate  that  has  no 
counterpart  on  earth  .  .  ."  "of  night  and  darkness,  of 
heaven  and  hell."  He  at  least  felt  that  Creegan  was 
right — there  were  chasms  that  could  not  be  bridged — 
"heaven  and  hell" — "heaven  and  hell." 


IX 

IRON  AND  VELVET 

The  days  passed  into  weeks.  The  arbitration  meeting 
had  broken  up  temporarily,  finding  agreement  impos- 
sible, though  Sir  James  Bulkley,  with  delicate  tactful- 
ness,  had  prevented  a  final  breach.  In  the  meantime, 
both  sides  were  putting  out  all  their  strength.  The 
Masters  had  even  persuaded  the  authorities  to  call  out 
the  military  in  the  north  and  in  the  South  Wales  coal 
districts,  but  they  had  not  been  used,  though  the  police 
were  everywhere  working  the  baton  and  some  hun- 
dreds of  men  had  been  mauled. 

Creegan  was  now  in  supreme  control  of  the  strike. 
Belch  was  said  to  be  ill.  Destin  was  everywhere  with 
his  chief,  and  had  addressed,  together  with  Wildish,  a 
ring  of  mass  meetings  in  the  north,  one  day  speaking 
in  the  slush  at  the  "bank"  of  a  coal  pit — another  in  a 
barn  of  a  hall.  He  was  becoming  more  restrained,  for 
he  began  to  feel  for  the  first  time  in  the  movement  the 
weight  of  responsibility,  a  feeling  which  strained 
whilst  it  flattered,  for  it  meant  shutting  off  steam. 
Wildish,  in  fact,  scoffed  at  his  lack  of  what  he  called 
"go." 

The  Big  Stick  at  the  Great  North- Western  was  still 
in  his  mind.  He  could  feel  that  the  Masters  held 
something  in  leash,  waiting  for  the  time  to  unslip  it. 

The  men  were  showing  unexpected  powers  of  resist- 
ance despite  the  lowness  of  their  war-chests.    In  those 

140 


IRON  AND  VELVET  141 

districts  where  the  coal  companies  were  their  land- 
lords and  had  turned  them  out  into  the  winter,  they 
simply  went  to  their  more  fortunate  fellows  and  slept 
two  and  three  in  a  bed.  When  the  out-of-work  pay 
had  dribbled  down  to  a  dole,  they  took  another  hole 
in  their  belts  and  shut  their  ears  to  the  wailing  of  the 
hungry  children.  "Another  Hole  in  the  Belt,"  in  fact, 
became  first  a  headline  in  the  labour  papers  and  was 
then  taken  up  half -mockingly  by  the  general  press. 

The  employers  had  used  starvation  and  the  streets 
to  beat  the  men.  Destin  wondered  what  they  would 
use  next,  and  asked  Creegan  what  he  thought,  in  Bex- 
ham,  the  colliery  town  where  they  had  been  speaking. 

"Do  next,  is  it?"  said  Creegan.  "Sure,  that's  not 
hard  to  see.  They'll  use  the  cold  steel  next.  That's 
what  they'll  do." 

Creegan  was  right.  There  had  been  some  move- 
ments of  troops  in  the  morning  to  protect  with  the 
police  the  pit-head  of  the  Black  Mountain  colliery, 
where  the  manager,  a  sandy-headed  Londoner  who  had 
made  himself  generally  unpleasant,  did  the  work  of 
three  men,  and  with  the  help  of  a  few  dozen  "black- 
legs," kept  the  water  from  rising  in  the  mine  and 
drowning  out  the  machinery.  Stones  had  been  thrown 
and  there  had  been  a  baton  charge  or  two.  Now  the 
khaki  of  the  soldiers  browned  the  pit-head  as  Creegan 
and  Destin  made  their  way  to  it  in  the  raw  cold  of  a 
January  morning,  the  police  standing  at  the  side  in  a 
compact,  black  mass,  with  a  few  reporters  looking  thin 
and  cold  in  their  turned-up  collars. 

When  Destin  saw  the  glitter  of  the  bayonets  under 
the  angry  red  light  of  the  January  sun,  his  heart  failed 
him.  Creegan  pulled  his  hat  tighter  on  his  head  and 
scowled.    "The  curse  of  Cain  on  them !"  he  said,  drop- 


142  DEMOCRACY 

ping  deeper  into  the  Irish  vernacular,  as  he  always  did 
when  excited.  "They'll  massacree  us,  will  they? 
Then  let  them  look  to  it." 

Destin  tried  to  dissuade  him.  "Get  our  men  away 
from  the  pit-head,  for  Heaven's  sake,  Brian,"  he 
urged.  Creegan  made  no  reply  but  went  to  a  group 
of  strikers  and  began  to  talk  with  them. 

Destin  was  standing  away  from  the  crowd  on  an 
overturned  truck  waiting  for  his  crowd.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  he  was  to  address  a  morning  meeting. 
He  looked  over  the  bobbing  heads  of  the  men  and  the 
shawled  heads  of  the  women  as  they  clustered  around 
Creegan.  There  were  perhaps  a  couple  of  thousand 
of  them  and  they  seemed  quiet  enough — ^but  not  so 
quiet  as  the  lines  of  brown  jnen  who  stood,  leaning 
easily  on  their  spiked  rifles.  Again  there  came  to  his 
mind  the  contrast  of  "Order"  and  "Disorder"  he  had 
seen  in  the  Square  that  day  in  June.  Here  a  con- 
fused moving  mass  of  people,  outnumbering  the  sol- 
diers ten  to  one — inchoate  and  helpless — and  up  there 
beyond,  the  thin  brown  lines,  ready  to  be  swung  at 
the  word  into  fierce  effectiveness. 

The  mass  seemed  purposeless  as  it  moved  uncer- 
tainly backwards  and  forwards,  crowding  around 
Creegan,  whose  head  stood  out  above  it.  Then  some- 
thing happened.  He  heard  a  scuttering  behind  the 
truck  where  he  stood,  and  saw  a  man  scrambling  along. 
When  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  line  of  tip-waggons,  he 
stooped,  and  taking  a  piece  of  slate  in  his  hand  threw 
it  over  the  heads  of  the  people  into  the  soldiers. 

It  seemed  to  have  freed  something.  The  police  ran 
towards  the  strikers,  loosening  their  batons  as  they 
came.  In  a  moment,  the  crowd  had  scattered,  and  the 
next,  pieces  of  coal  and  stone  were  flying  thickly 


IRON  AND  VELVET  143 

through  the  air.  A  whistle  shrilled  and  the  black  wave 
had  wheeled  to  one  side  and  was  doubling  back  at  the 
moment  when  the  crowd  had  instinctively  closed  up 
to  receive  them.  There  was  a  movement  up  there  by 
the  pit-head — a  word  of  command,  and  the  brown 
lines  had  stiffened  to  attention. 

Another  word,  and  fascinated,  he  watched  the  rifles 
coming  machine-like  to  the  shoulders  of  the  men  under 
the  angry  winter  sun.  Something  ran  along  them, 
though  for  a  moment  he  thought  it  was  the  flash  of 
the  sun  on  the  steel,  a  spattering  came  to  his  ears — a 
shouting  with  higher  notes  that  pierced  it — a  running 
hither  and  thither,  and  when  the  crowd  had  broken 
there  were  five  or  six  figures  lying  on  the  groimd, 
one  of  them  clutching  at  its  throat. 

Creegan  alone  stood  his  ground,  his  hat  off,  his 
fists  jutting  downwards  at  his  side,  screaming  at  the 
soldiers  who  lapped  at  the  double,  led  by  their  officer, 
a  slight-looking  boy  with  a  wisp  of  moustache.  The 
rush  passed  and  he  disappeared.  The  Big  Stick  was 
getting  to  work  in  earnest. 

The  impulse  came  to  Destin,  strong,  overwhelming, 
to  run  from  the  place — the  next  moment  he  found 
himself  running  forward  towards  the  soldiers,  his 
hands  clenched,  his  lips  mouthing  incoherences.  Some- 
thing cannoned  into  him  and  he  went  down.  He  was 
up  again,  calling  to  the  men  and  women  to  rally.  He 
felt  himself  caught  from  behind  and  run  helplessly,  his 
arms  pinioned,  down  the  pit  works  and  outside. 

Maddened,  he  taunted  the  police  who  held  him, 
daring  them  to  bludgeon  him.  But  they  only  laughed. 
They  evidently  had  their  orders,  for  they  refused  to 
arrest  him,  and  he  found  himself  an  hour  afterwards 
looking  at  a  leaden  face  in  the  glass  of  the  railway 


144  DEMOCRACY 

waiting  room — 3,  new  Destin,  but  unhurt.  The  Big 
Stick  could  discriminate. 

The  next  morning  he  found  his  name  and  Creegan's 
side  by  side  in  the.headUnes  of  the  press,  in  which 
a  highly  imaginative  account  of  his  battle  with  the 
police  under  the  heading — "One  Man  Defies  a  Regi- 
ment," appeared,  with  an  undertone  of  irony  however. 
During  the  day  he  received  from  his  mother,  who 
broke  through  her  six  months'  silence,  a  letter  of  digni- 
fied protest  at  what  she  called  his  "proceedings,"  with 
two  or  three  telegrams  asking  him  to  address  meetings 
to  protest  against  police  brutality,  and  he  found,  like 
many  before  him,  that  it  was  an  ill  wind  which  blew 
nobody  any  good,  for  the  Black  Mountain  business 
put  him  in  the  forefront  as  a  Syndicalist  leader,  even 
the-man-in-the-street  beginning  to  look  for  the  name 
of  Destin  as  a  sort  of  second  Creegan. 

But  as  he  opened  his  Meteor,  there  was  something 
else  that  struck  him  between  the  eyes.  The  headline — 
"Mr.  John  Belch  Joins  the  Cabinet."  In  a  mo- 
ment he  had  run  his  eye  down  the  details,  giving  a 
sketch  of  the  new  member's  career  from  the  days  when, 
as  a  working  joiner,  he  had  been  returned  for  his 
district  council,  down  to  his  making  of  history  as  the 
first  working-man  to  rise  to  cabinet  rank. 

The  tone  of  the  notice  was  quite  cordial,  though 
near  the  end  there  was  a  little  "incident"  recorded,  as 
showing  a  well-known  side  of  his  personality  (the 
paper  called  it  "belief  in  himself").  It  was  said  that 
upon  the  Prime  Minister  advising  him  of  his  appoint- 
ment, he  had  replied — "And  an  excellent  idea  too,  Mr. 
Transome.  Now  I  shall  be  able  to  hold  the  scales  be- 
tween Capital  and  Labour." 

The  long  silences  at  the  conferences — the  stilted, 


IRON  AND  VELVET  145 

jerky  self-assertiveness — all  these  things  were  ex- 
plained now,  and  when  Destin  turned  to  his  Labour 
paper,  with  the  heading — "Judas  Iscariot/'  with  ref- 
erences to  "thirty  pieces  of  silver,"  and  "an  attempt  to 
undermine  independent  Labour  representation,"  he 
found  only  one  more  endorsement  of  his  contempt  for 
politics  and  politicians.  "Belch  was  like  the  rest  of 
them" — and  he  left  it  there. 

He  found  to  his  surprise  that  so  far  from  his  Syn- 
dicalism killing  his  journalism,  as  he  feared,  the  editors 
of  the  capitalist  papers  wanted  very  much  indeed  to 
know  his  opinion  upon  men  and  things.  The  Daily 
Meteor  even  asked  him  to  go  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons and  write  them  a  column  giving  his  impressions 
of  the  debate  upon  labour  unrest,  a  debate  which  was 
to  be  one  of  the  "big  nights." 

I  It  was  all  part  of  the  mystery  of  what  the  man  in 
Bethlehem  House  had  called  "the  power  of  the  press." 
It  was  a  thing  incomprehensible  to  the  man  outside  the 
inner  workings — even  to  a  "free  lance"  like  himself, 
who  was  beginning  to  know  the  ropes.  But  it  was 
all  helping  him  in  his  Fleet  Street  struggle,  and  he 
didn't  look  gift  horses  in  the  mouth  even  when  they 
came  from  Capitalism. 

He  walked  through  the  insignificant  side  entrance 
to  the  House,  trying  to  feel  as  modest  as  possible,  but 
could  not  help  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure  as  the  two 
giants  at  the  outside  door  looked  at  him  and  smiled  to 
each  other.  This  lifting  from  the  reek  of  the  average 
was  comforting  to  him,  and  as  he  made  his  way  to 
the  octagonal  hall  between  the  lines  of  seated  people, 
waiting  to  get  into  the  debate,  he  could  not  help  glanc- 
ing a  little  from  side  to  side  to  see  if  those  others  no- 
ticed him,  for  his  large  soft  green  hat,  a  more  modest 


146  DEMOCRACY 

imitation  of  Creegan's,  had  appeared  in  the  Daily 
Looking  Glass  with  other  celebrities.  But  they  were 
quite  indifferent.  He  was  beginning  to  find  that 
London  was  a  big  place. 

He  stood  in  the  hall  amongst  others,  looking  about 
him  for  a  bit,  uncertain  where  he  was  to  present  the 
signed  order  for  admission  which  the  Daily  Meteor 
had  so  kindly  provided,  and  which  bore  the  signature 
of  a  well-known  Conservative  M.P.  Every  now  and 
then  he  saw  the  double  lines  extended  beyond  the 
wooden  railings,  which  screened  the  awful  presence  of 
the  people's  law-makers,  crane  forward  as  the  police- 
man in  the  centre  called  out  the  name  of  the  member 
they  wished  to  see  in  a  voice  that  seemed  sacrilegious. 
Every  few  minutes,  a  figure  appeared,  with  the  bash- 
fulness  of  the  truly  great,  behind  the  announcer,  who, 
standing  on  one  side  as  the  visitor  came  forward,  ex- 
posed the  legislator  to  the  vulgar  gaze.  All  with  one 
exception,  when  a  well-known  voice  made  itself  heard, 
the  man  behind  the  voice  pushing  the  policeman  on  one 
side  and  running  forward  to  shake  hands  with  a  short, 
stubbly  man,  talking  all  the  while,  the  voice  passing 
into  a  crescendo,  as  arm  in  arm  its  owner  led  the  short 
man  to  some  sacred  interior,  where  it  gradually  died 
away  in  a  diminuendo.    It  was  Belch. 

Whilst  he  stood  there,  he  saw  bald,  pompous  little 
men  who  doubled  at  the  waist ;  tall,  thin,  hair-pin  men 
who  moved  angularly,  and  even  McGraw,  who  nodded 
to  him  cordially  to  his  delight.  But  what  he  noticed 
about  most  of  these  men  was  that  they  seemed  to  feel 
their  position  keenly,  moving  and  speaking  not  as  ordi- 
nary mortals,  though  looking  excessively  common- 
place, but  with  a  sort  of  forced  good-fellowship,  tem- 
pered by  a  dignified  assertiveness.     They  more  than 


IRON  AND  VELVET  147 

confirmed  all  his  contempt  for  politics  and  politicians. 
He  contrasted  them  with  Creegan — even  with  the 
Labour  members  themselves,  and  felt  the  gap  between 
idealism  and  commonplace  reality. 

Directed  by  the  policeman,  whom  he  approached  as 
diffidently  as  anyone  else,  he  found  himself  climbing 
a  winding  stone  stairs,  then  past  a  suavely  courteous 
gentleman  in  evening  dress  who  asked  him  to  put  his 
name  in  a  book,  which  he  did  with  the  characteristic 
line  underneath,  making  a  murderous  blot  with  the 
unaccustomed  quill,  and  then  through  two  more  doors 
where  he  found  himself  in  a  musty,  fusty  atmosphere, 
that  smelled  yellow. 

Coming  out  of  the  sepulchre  of  a  place  was  a  voice, 
speaking  thinly  from  somewhere  underneath.  He  had 
the  feeling  as  he  made  his  way  to  a  seat  in  the  steep- 
ness of  the  gallery,  that  he  was  about  to  topple  head- 
long into  the  bosom  of  England's  legislators.  It  was 
some  minutes  before  his  mind  began  to  take  in  his  sur- 
roundings. 

The  place  had  the  "dim,  religious  light"  of  a  cathe- 
dral, with  the  Speaker  as  a  sort  of  high  priest  in  his 
box,  the  long  rows  of  men  on  the  floor  looking  like 
choir  men,  at  intervals  erupting  decorously  to  express 
indignation  or  assent.  "Everything  was  done  decently 
and  in  order'*  as  though  the  place  were  a  church.  It 
was  what  he  had  so  often  militated  against — "the  tone 
of  the  House." 

With  a  little  thrill,  he  recognised  Courcy,  his  shoul- 
ders bent,  his  long,  slender  legs  twined  inextricably. 
By  his  side  he  recognised  also  several  of  the  great  ones 
of  British  politics,  whilst  almost  underneath  him,  be- 
low the  Opposition,  he  saw  the  men  who  seemed  to 
him  the  most  human  things  in  the  place,  from  whose 


148  DEMOCRACY 

grey  eyes  and  humorous  mouths  sometimes  shot  quick, 
sharp  criticism,  when  a  ripple  of  suppressed  laughter 
ran  around  the  House.  They  were  politicians,  but  he 
loved  them.     They  were  his  own  race. 

But  his  eyes  did  not  travel  long.  Ever  and  again 
they  came  back  to  the  place  where  the  thin  high  voice 
of  the  speaker  was  leading  the  debate  on  behalf  of  the 
Government.  The  veined,  domed  forehead  came  out 
abysmally  over  the  little,  crafty  eyes.  The  massive 
head  with  the  pug  nose,  thrust  forward  characteristic- 
ally from  the  hunched  shoulders,  the  keen  quick  thrust 
of  the  forefinger — ^all  showed  the  famous  man  who 
represented  Cheriton  in  the  House  of  Commons,  the 
last  of  the  Winterhursts,  of  whom  men  spoke  in  bated 
breath,  in  admiring  fearsomeness,  as  a  mass  of  secret 
vices,  though  nothing  definite  seemed  to  be  known 
about  him  except  his  exploits  in  the  Boer  War,  which 
had  filled  the  press  of  the  Empire,  and  which  had  given 
him  the  V.C. 

The  man  looked  rotten  to  Destin — 3,  shell  with  the 
light  shining  through  the  crannies.  But  it  was  a  bril- 
liant rottenness.  He  drove  home  his  points,  in  which 
he  showed  himself  as  a  friend  of  Labour — ^as  its 
friendly  adviser.  After  running  through  the  misery 
of  the  strike  to  the  women  and  children  in  tones  that 
brought  back  Goldbeater's  speech  at  the  Great  North- 
Western,  he  want  on: 

"As  for  us,  we  recognise  that  a  fair  day's  wages  for 
a  fair  day's  work  must  be  the  object  of  all  sides  of 
the  House.  All  classes  of  society  are  recognising  the 
splendid  work  the  Trade  Unions  have  done  to  organise 
labour,  but  a  giant's  strength  having  been  given  them, 
they  must  not  use  it  as  a  giant."  There  was  gentle 
irony  in  his  voice.     "Since  the  incursion  of  Labour 


IRON  AND  VELVET  149 

into  this  House,  its  representatives  have  won  for  them- 
selves the  praise  of  all  parties'*  ("Hear-hear"  from 
Courcy  and  a  patronising  chorus  that  rippled  after 
him  from  the  benches  behind)  "by  their  behaviour  and 
by  the  moderation  of  tone  which,  like  others,  they  have 
learned  goes  farthest  in  this  assembly  as  outside. 
Again  and  again  has  Labour  protested  its  moderation, 
and  now  is  the  time  to  prove  to  the  nation  its  words, 
which  I  for  one  do  not  doubt  are  honestly  meant." 

The  figure  seemed  to  come  forward  a  little,  the 
finger  was  thrust  downwards  a  trifle,  and  the  voice 
went  on — "It  is  not  what  are  called  the  employing 
classes  who  will  use  force,  even  though  they  have  be- 
hind them  the  armed  forces  of  the  nation.  That  rests 
with  Labour.  The  unhappy  Black  Mountain  incident 
it  is  hoped  will  be  the  last  of  its  kind,  as  otherwise  in 
the  near  future  we  might  find  England  in  a  state  of 
civil  war,  in  which  the  Government,  in  the  national  in- 
terests, would  have  no  option  but  to  crush  it  with  a 
strong  hand." 

"The  Big  Stick  you  mean,"  came  from  a  Labour 
man  on  whom  Steltham  frowned  from  his  place  on 
the  front  Labour  bench.  Even  the  Workers'  Party 
leader,  a  perfectly  honest  and  perfectly  undistinguished 
man  of  the  name  of  Johnson,  who  owed  his  position 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  amongst 
the  more  prominent  Trade  Union  officials  to  get  into 
the  House,  looked  at  the  offender  in  pained  surprise. 

"No,"  the  speaker  replied,  "I  mean  the  iron  hand 
in  the  velvet  glove." 

The  voice  was  still  suave,  but  underneath  there  was 
an  erosion,  a  burning,  which  showed  itself  more  and 
more  as  the  speaker  proceeded.  Nor  could  Destin  fail 
to  notice  how  the  more  ominous  portions  of  his  speech 


150  DEMOCRACY 

were  received  with  silence  from  the  benches  around — 
not  a  condemnatory  silence,  but  a  brooding  silence,  as 
though  the  words  should  go  home  to  the  handful  of 
Labour  men,  who  sat  silent  and  unconvinced,  but  over- 
awed. There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  The  inter- 
jections, which  at  the  earlier  stage  had  broken  from 
them,  gradually  died  away,  but  despite  it,  there  was  a 
stubbornness  about  them  which  reminded  Destin  of  a 
child  punished  wrongfully,  but  who  determines  he  will 
be  naughty  again  at  the  first  chance. 

Winterhurst  finished  upon  a  note  of  optimism,  win- 
ning from  all  parts  of  the  House,  including  even  a  few 
on  the  Labour  benches,  a  gentlemanly  chorus  of 
"Hear-hears!" 

Steltham,  who  followed  Winterhurst,  was  to  Des- 
tin's  surprise,  received  with  quite  an  encouraging 
undercurrent  of  applause  from  both  sides  of  the 
House.  What  mystified  him  in  particular  was  that 
Courcy,  who  had  attacked  Steltham  bitterly  in  the 
country,  and  Goldbeater  who  sat  by  him,  added  their 
quota  to  the  general  approbation.  Steltham,  whose 
face  had  been  pale,  flushed  slightly  and  began  his 
speech  upon  the  nominal  cause  of  debate,  the  wages 
for  "difiicult  places"  for  miners,  by  a  conciliatory  ap- 
peal to  all  sections  of  the  House,  constantly  referring 
to  members  in  other  parts  of  the  House  as  "my  Hon. 
friend,"  or  "the  Hon.  and  gallant  member  for  so  and  so." 

All  these  conciliatory  appeals  were  backed  enthusi- 
astically by  a  knot  of  Labour  members,  who,  he  heard 
a  man  near  him  whisper,  were  the  Miners'  representa- 
tives, and  who  looked  rather  out  of  place  amongst  the 
others.  McGraw  alone,  his  white  beard  jutting  out 
pugnaciously,  his  arms  folded  across  his  chest,  listened 
with  detachment. 


IRON  AND  VELVET  151 

Steltham's  was  a  closely  reasoned  speech,  but  it 
seemed  to  Destin  to  lack  "bite,"  and  was  in  singular 
contrast  to  the  face  of  the  speaker,  with  its  short, 
fighting,  shearing  nose,  craggy  jaw,  and  unquenchable 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  "pumped  up"  when  it  passed 
from  the  reasoned  to  the  pleading,  but  when  he  sat 
down  all  parts  of  the  House  applauded  enthusiastically, 
Winterhurst  smiling  craftily  under  his  bulging  fore- 
head, whilst  Goldbeater's  face  creased  itself  into  the 
Chinese  joss  look  which  Destin  now  knew  so  well.  It 
was  a  successful  speech,  delivered  with  clearness  and 
reserve. 

A  volley  of  welcome  had  rumbled  round  the  House, 
grown  in  volume  and  died  away.  Destin  could  not 
see  what  was  going  forward,  until  the  well-remem- 
bered bass  boomed  upwards  from  the  Government 
front  bench.    It  was  Belch. 

From  some  of  the  Labour  members  came  angry 
cries  of  "Rat !"  "Traitor !"  but  the  stubborn,  powerful 
figure  that  stood  there  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  the 
keen  blue  eyes  facing  round  challengingly  upon  his 
former  colleagues,  did  not  blench.  Whatever  might 
be  said  of  Belch,  he  had  great  courage,  and  had  never 
wanted  it  more  than  now  when  he  was  making  his  first 
speech  from  the  Front  Bench. 

There  was  nothing  apologetic  about  the  man,  in  his 
short  rough  pea-jacket,  as,  his  left  hand  clenching  a 
bundle  of  papers,  he  sprang  into  the  middle  of  his 
speech.  Behind  him  the  massed  Liberals  looked  at  him 
doubtfully — even  up  there  in  the  gallery  Destin  could 
feel  that — whilst  the  Opposition  found  a  new  interest 
in  the  man  who  had  baited  them  in  the  past  more  than 
any  other  representative  of  Labour. 


152  DEMOCRACY 

The  man  himself  had  no  more  doubt  of  his  present 
mission  than  he  had  ever  had  of  the  one  that  was 
closed  for  ever.  The  whip  of  Local  Government  had 
been  given  into  his  hands,  and,  if  necessary,  he  would 
wield  it  as  mercilessly  against  his  former  colleagues  as 
he  had  done  in  the  past  against  the  men  who  now  sat 
with  him  upon  the  Liberal  benches.  The  voice  boomed 
upwards,  declaring  its  intention,  in  blasphemous  om- 
nipotence, of  acting  as  the  intermediary  between  Cap- 
ital and  Labour,  "which  now,  in  my  present  position, 
I  shall  be  able  to  do  with  more  effect  than  I  ever  could 
have  done  in  the  past." 

The  reiteration  of  the  "I"  came  like  the  beat  of  a 
bass  drum,  punctuating  his  speech,  which  now  no 
longer  drew  the  plaudits  even  of  his  own  men.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  certain  though  indefinable  distrust  of 
the  speaker,  even  amongst  his  present  colleagues,  which 
passed  in  the  case  of  those  he  had  left,  to  hatred  and 
contempt. 

The  incarnate  egotism  of  the  man  was  fascinating 
to  watch,  and  when  he  sat  down,  obviously  pleased 
with  himself,  the  feeling  of  the  House  seemed  to  be 
crystallised  by  the  voice  of  a  man  who  sat  below  Destin 
in  the  gallery,  a  voice  which  he  seemed  to  recognise, 
which  shouted  in  a  high  treble — "You  dirty  traitor! 
you  dirty  traitor!"  nor  did  it  cease  whilst  the  man 
himself  was  being  bundled  out  by  the  policeman. 
"Dirty  traitor  V  could  be  heard  dying  away  down  the 
corridor.  Even  Belch  flushed.  The  voice  was 
Graney's. 

Courcy  was  on  his  feet  as  Destin  turned  his  eyes 
downwards  again.  In  a  speech  of  modulated  grace, 
the  Opposition  leader  paid  a  delicate  compliment  to 
the  courage  with  which  the  Right  Honourable  member 


IRON  AND  VELVET  153 

who  had  just  spoken  had  not  been  afraid  to  fill  what 
he  called  "the  imminent  deadly  breach"  of  the  Cabinet. 
"We  all  admire  his  forcefulness,  even  though  our 
admiration  may  not  be  shared  by  certain  portions  of 
the  House.  ...  I  include  myself,"  he  said,  in  rueful 
irony,  in  recollection  of  past  battles  with  Belch,  as  a 
little  laugh  ran  round  the  building. 

"No  doubt/'  he  went  on,  "the  Right  Honourable 
member,  with  the  aid  of  his  former  colleagues,  whose 
cause  he  is  doubtless  serving  more  excellently  in  his 
present  position  than  he  ever  could  have  done  before, 
as  he  said  himself,  with  a  frankness  which  is  peculiarly 
his  own,  and  with  whom  his  parting  is  really  a  serv- 
ice," (an  indescribable  irony  ran  through  his  words) 
"will  be  able  to  adjust  the  points  in  dispute  between 
Capital  and  Labour." 

His  words  flowed  on  mellifluously,  though  every 
now  and  then  they  checked  for  a  moment  to  sting, 
then  flowing  on  as  before  as  though  the  interjection 
were  a  mere  ornament  of  rhetoric.  But  one  thing 
occurred  again  and  again  in  his  speech  as  Destin  no- 
ticed, the  assertion  that  in  this  case  both  Government 
and  Opposition  were  at  one.  "In  matters  where 
national  interests  are  concerned,  of  which  this  is  one ; 
where  widespread  misery  exists  through  unemploy- 
ment— ^unnecessary  unemployment  let  me  add — where 
millions  of  people  are  incommoded  from  going  about 
their  business  through  lack  of  trains — where  the  homes 
of  England  lack  fire  and  light — then,  whilst  anxious  to 
make  the  fullest  possible  concessions  to  Labour,  we 
have  a  national  duty  to  perform,  and  in  that  perform- 
ance all  party  differences  are  sunk,  as  they  will  always 
be  sunk.     In  the  words  of  my  Right  Honourable 


154  DEMOCRACY 

friend,  we  prefer  to  use  'the  velvet  glove/  but  there  is 
*an  iron  hand'  inside  it." 

Again  Destin  felt  that  strangulation — that  sense  of 
helplessness — he  had  felt  at  the  Conference.  There 
was  the  same  certainty — the  same  passionlessness. 

Passing  on  quickly,  his  face  lighted  by  one  of  his 
rare  smiles,  the  Opposition  leader  associated  himself 
with  Winterhurst  in  the  just  tribute  he  had  paid  to  the 
Workers'  Party  in  the  House.  "At  the  beginning,  it 
was  true,  some  of  them  on  the  Opposition  benches  had 
feared  that  the  Mother  of  Parliaments  might  lose 
her  reputation  for  suavity  of  debate  and  chivalrous 
courtesy,  but  he  was  happy  to  say  that  such  had  not 
been  the  case,  as  the  Honourable  members  opposite 
had  kept  up  that  reputation  and  supported  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  House.  He  was  sure  that  in  the  rest  of 
the  debate,  so  admirably  continued  on  behalf  of 
Labour  by  the  Honourable  member  for  Westburn,  no 
jarring  note  would  interfere  with  what  promised  to  be 
a  mutually  satisfactory  settlement  of  the  points  at 
issue,  which  had  been  so  ably  and  moderately  set  out 
by  the  Honourable  member  who  distinguishes  the 
Workers'  Party  by  his  leadership  and  by  his  Right 
Honourable  friend,  the  member  for  Cheriton." 

The  tone  of  the  chamber  had  become  curiously  warm 
and  friendly.  The  leaders  of  both  sides  beamed  on 
each  other,  whilst  the  Prime  Minister,  a  fine-looking 
man,  whose  head  might  have  been  carved  from  a  block 
of  teak,  his  white  hair  falling  picturesquely  around  his 
noble  forehead  and  jaw,  smiled  in  the  benevolent,  dig- 
nified way  famous  throughout  the  illustrateds  as  "the 
Transome  smile." 

There  was  still  a  certain  stubbornness  about  the 
Labour  men,  but  it  was  obvious  they  had  been  softened 


IRON  AND  VELVET  155 

and  were  now  only  anxious  to  come  to  a  settlement. 
The  place  had  become  a  vast  pigeon-loft,  in  which 
only  the  billing  and  cooing  of  politics  could  be  heard. 
Some  of  the  members,  in  low  courteous  rumblings  were 
murmuring  "'Vide,  'Vide.**  They  evidently  regarded 
the  debate  as  good  as  over. 

There  was  a  sudden  stiffening  of  the  faces  as  Destin 
ran  his  eye  along  the  benches.  It  was  as  though  a 
chill  breath  had  passed  over  the  House.  The  faces, 
broken  a  moment  ago,  were  now  all  staring  one  way, 
looking  at  the  figure  which  had  risen  near  the  end  of 
the  front  Labour  bench. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Destin  had  seen  the  man 
who  was  about  to  speak,  the  man  whose  figure,  like 
a  figure  of  fate,  dominated  every  labour  congress,  as 
it  dominated  the  most  difficult  assembly  in  the  world — 
the  British  House  of  Commons.  "Kisterling's  up!" 
had  run  through  the  corridors  outside,  and  there  was 
a  hurrying  in  at  the  doors  of  members  who  had  run 
from  the  smoking  rooms  and  dining  rooms  to  hear  the 
man  who  so  seldom  spoke. 

He  stood  there,  one  hand  clenched  on  his  slender 
hip,  the  body  crippled  by  a  cruel  accident  in  the  days 
when  he  had  driven  a  pen  in  a  Birmingham  office,  but 
indomitable,  tense.  Above  the  bulging  forehead,  high 
and  vast,  the  green  eyes  set  deeply  under  the  over- 
hanging, rather  bushy,  brows;  the  nose  straight  and 
keen  as  the  stem  of  a  liner ;  the  ears  placed  closely  to 
the  head  in  the  manner  of  the  fighter;  and  the  most 
terrible  jaw  and  mouth  in  the  House.  The  jaw,  the 
jaw  of  the  political  fighting-man — the  mouth,  thin- 
lipped,  scorpion,  fit  channel  for  the  most  biting  tongue 
in  the  chamber,  not  excepting  that  of  Courcy.  "Corro- 
sive Sublimate,"  they  called  him. 


.156  DEMOCRACY 

The  words  came  gently,  almost  caressingly,  from 
the  thin  lips  as  he  opened  delicately  but  inexorably, 
feeling  his  way  to  the  facts  of  the  dispute,  which  he 
marshalled  one  by  one  until  they  stood  limned  before 
his  hearers.  He  was  speaking  easily,  shouldering  his 
way  through  his  figures  as  a  yacht  shoulders  her  way 
through  a  long,  gently  heaving  sea.  But  now  and  then 
there  would  be  a  hiss  of  spume,  and  as  Destin  watched 
the  lips  he  could  almost  see  the  forked  tongue  flicker 
out  for  a  moment,  then  disappear. 

Column  by  column  he  marshalled  his  figures,  making 
living  facts  of  the  dry  bones  of  statistics.  Then,  his 
groundwork  prepared  and  the  foundations  made  ready, 
as  a  gun  platform  is  made  ready  for  the  weapon  it  is 
to  support,  he  paused  for  a  moment,  gazing  around 
and  through  the  silence  which  enveloped  him.  In  an 
instant  he  had  swung  round,  facing  Steltham,  who 
sat,  his  arms  folded  sulkily,  a  few  seats  from  him,  and 
in  defiance  of  all  known  rules  of  debate,  proceeded  to 
lay  bare  the  skeleton  of  his  colleague's  facts. 

With  the  eye  and  hand  of  an  anatomist  of  words,  he 
bared  the  faulty  logic,  taking  limb  from  limb,  fibre 
from  fibre,  until  he  left  on  the  operating  table  of  the 
House  a  thing  of  disarticulation. 

With  vitriolic  irony,  he  dwelt  upon  the  imperfect 
grip  of  Labour  itself  upon  its  own  facts,  but  said  em- 
phatically that  he  stood,  not  for  Labour's  supposed 
leaders,  but  for  the  voiceless  masses  of  the  rank  and 
file  outside  Parliament  who  could  not  speak  for  them- 
selves. There  was  no  appeal  to  sentiment — ^no  frothy 
rhetoric,  yet  his  speech  was  a  rhetorical  masterpiece. 

Passing  from  his  colleague,  who  smiled  darkly  and 
perhaps  derisively,  he  turned  coldly  towards  Belch. 
A^  h^  looked  at  him  an  instant  before  speaking, 


IRON  AND  VELVET  157 

Destin  saw  the  doomed  man  blench  just  a  shade — so 
sHghtly  that  if  he  had  not  been  watching  him  closely 
he  would  have  thought  it  imagination — and  then  brace 
himself  to  the  blast.  Stinging,  the  words  whipped  out 
from  the  lips— each  word  barbed  and  poison-tipped, 
punctuated  by  the  long  thin  index  finger,  thrust  rapier- 
like before  him.  Keeping  his  feet,  unentangled  by  the 
rules  of  debate  of  the  House,  those  hair  lines  used  to 
catch  the  feet  of  the  unwary,  he  spoke  of  Judas  and 
thirty  pieces  of  silver,  without  referring  directly  to 
the  man  himself.  Again  and  again  he  drove  his 
weapon  home,  until  Belch,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
memory  of  man,  lost  his  colour  and  his  self-possession, 
his  eyes  staring  haggardly  out  before  him. 

The  benches  of  the  two  chief  parties  were  now 
watching  him  with  joy  unconcealed,  for  here  was  "the 
house  divided  against  itself."  But  in  the  middle  of  a 
spatter  of  uneasy  laughter  at  some  particularly  keen 
thrust,  the  cold  green  eyes  had  run  along  the  benches, 
and  the  smiles  had  fixed  themselves. 

In  a  passionless,  resistless  review,  he  had  dropped 
the  stilettos  of  argument  and  was  using  the  whip  upon 
the  shoulders  of  those  who  crouched  before  him,  for 
the  thrust  of  the  forefinger  had  become  a  beat — ^the 
beat  of  a  whip.  Destin  could  see  the  pale  figure,  like 
that  of  Death,  straddling  over  the  benches,  flogging 
them  into  impotent  fury.  Again  and  again  like  a  fig- 
ure of  revolution  the  figure  raised  itself  and  flailed  the 
men  who  cowered  there  before  the  beat  of  the  long 
lean  finger  as  though  accused  by  the  finger  of  God. 
Higher  and  higher  it  rose,  dominating  the  House,  until 
with  one  last  contemptuous  stroke,  the  figure  had 
flung  away  the  whip  and  sunk  into  invisibility. 

There  was  a  tinkling  of  bells.    A  confused  scutter- 


158  DEMOCRACY 

ing  on  the  floor,  and  the  bruised  men  had  hurried  out 
to  the  division,  their  backs  a  Httle  bowed  it  seemed  to 
Destin,  and  when  the  figures  were  announced  on  the 
floor  of  the  House,  Destin  found  that  Labour  had 
been  beaten  to  earth,  smashed  into  helplessness  by  the 
dead  weight  of  a  united  House,  but  all  "decently  and 
in  order."    "Iron  and  velvet." 

As  he  sat  there  and  watched  the  procession  of  the 
tellers  up  the  floor  of  the  chamber,  a  great  passion  rose 
within  him — sl  passion  which  would  find  its  vent  in 
hewing  and  smashing — in  the  abyss  of  physical  force. 

"The  tone  of  the  House !"  He  hated  them  with  the 
hate  of  the  impotent.  Strangled,  stifled,  as  he  was, 
again  there  stirred  within  him  that  flickering  hope 
which  always  came  in  his  moments  of  dark  depression, 
and  as  he  walked  out  of  the  building,  his  loins  girt,  it 
was  with  unquenchable  resolution  to  plough  his  row 
to  the  end. 


THE    PARLIAMENT    OF    LABOUR 

When  Destin  opened  his  Daily  Meteor  the  next  mom- 
ing,  he  found  the  labour  debate  almost  hidden  by  a  big 
murder,  in  which,  in  the  words  of  its  editor,  there  was 
the  cardinal  selling-trinity  of  fighting,  flirting,  and 
finance.  The  outline  of  the  debate  alone  was  given, 
but  on  the  leader  page  there  were  a  few  lines  as  a  sub- 
leader: 

"Labour  Unrest 

"The  country  which  has  so  anxiously  awaited  the 
labour  debate  will  turn  with  satisfaction  this  morning 
to  the  splendid  moderation  of  the  speeches  from  all 
sides  of  the  House,  and  from  none  more  than  from  the 
Labour  benches,  which,  however,  was  marred  by  an 
unfortunate  and  intemperately  worded  incursion  into 
the  debate  by  Mr.  Kisterling,  who,  however,  has  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he  represents  no  one  but 
himself.  Now  that  the  crux  of  the  labour  unrest  has 
been  thrashed  out  in  full  and  free  debate  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  as  the  majority  of  the  people's  representa- 
tives have  decided  against  the  claims  of  Labour,  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  private  conference  between  Mas- 
ters and  Men,  which  is  to  resume  its  sittings  to-mor- 
row, will  take  the  hint.  Nothing  could  be  more 
repugnant  to  the  mind  of  the  Government  than  that 
the  force  element  should  further  enter  into  the  strug- 

159 


160  DEMOCRACY 

gle,  with  the  danger  of  its  becoming  an  integral  part 
of  the  disputes  between  Capital  and  Labour." 

"Force."  That  was  the  word  which  stood  out  from 
all  the  others  in  the  mind  of  Destin.  Surely  the  Rad- 
ical papers,  which  had  all  along  professed  their  sym- 
pathy with  the  claims  of  Trades  Unionism  generally, 
would  take  a  different  tone.  After  breakfast,  Destin 
went  into  the  neighbouring  library  and  there  read  the 
notices  in  the  Liberal  dailies.  His  eye  caught — "The 
upholding  of  the  traditions  of  the  House  .  .  ."  "moder- 
ation of  Labour's  tone  .  .  ."  "fine  common-sense  of 
the  miner's  representatives.  .  .  ."  "Mr.  Kisterling's 
unfortunate  remarks."  And  through  the  whole,  like 
a  thin  red  line,  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the  assertion 
that  "where  national  interests  were  involved,  the  his- 
toric parties  of  the  House  find  themselves  at  one." 

This  was  set  out  in  various  forms,  in  a  play  and 
interplay  of  words  and  meanings — ^but  it  always  came 
back  to  the  point  that  the  historic  parties  as  guardians 
of  the  nation's  rights  were  of  one  mind. 

He  knew  that  it  was  "all  over,  bar  shouting,"  as  a 
Labour  journalist  told  him  in  Fleet  Street,  and  when 
the  next  day's  Conference  was  held  at  the  Great  North- 
Western,  at  which  Belch  did  not  put  in  an  appearance, 
it  was  to  find  the  Labour  delegates  anxious  to  settle 
the  whole  thing  quickly  ere  worse  befell  them. 

There  was  no  crowing  over  the  defeat  of  Labour 
by  the  Masters.  It  was  true  that  Goldbeater  looked  like 
a  snake  just  after  the  act  of  deglutition,  and  Goring  a 
little  more  swollen  than  usual — ^but  the  behaviour  of 
Muschamp,  Sir  Claude  Crespigny,  and  the  other  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Masters,  was  all  that  could  be  desired, 
while   Sir  James  Bulkley   was  consideration   itself. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      161 

Westerley  still  puffed  his  cigar  nonchalantly  at  the 
ceiling,  Steltham  looked  much  as  before,  whilst  the 
miners'  delegates  were  obviously  more  than  pleased 
at  the  cessation  of  hostilities. 

McGraw  alone  sat  a  little  more  heavily  in  his  chair, 
Creegan,  indomitable  as  ever,  being  the  one  harsh  note 
of  a  peaceful  finish,  not  speaking  it  is  true,  but  sitting 
crouched  over  his  blotting  pad.  He  took  no  part  in 
the  proceedings,  and  when  on  the  final  vote  Labour 
went  down  to  defeat,  he  refused  to  hold  up  his  hand 
one  way  or  the  other. 

Denis  Destin  stood  at  the  crossroads.  This  he  felt 
as  he  sat  in  "The  Silver  Herring,"  a  little  coffee  house 
near  the  Great  North- Western,  waiting  for  Creegan, 
who  had  asked  him  to  meet  him  there  after  the  con- 
ference. The  whole  business  from  the  first  day's  sit- 
ting, through  the  debate  in  the  House,  down  to  the 
pitiful  aftermath  of  that  morning,  fell  upon  him  crush- . 
ingly.  First  the  Big  Stick  on  the  head — then  the 
Stiletto  through  the  heart.  "Iron  and  Velvet."  These 
were  the  things  that  ran  shadow-like  through  his  brain. 

The  thing  that  struck  cold  to  him  was  the  apathy 
of  the  politicians,  and  not  so  much  their  apathy  as  the 
fact  that  they  were  the  accredited  representatives  of 
Demos  in  the  supreme  tribunal.  If  the  working-man 
could  make  that  mistake,  where  was  that  "Vox  populi 
— ^vox  Dei !"  of  which  he  was  never  tired  of  speaking 
from  the  platform?  And  through  all  this  depression, 
and  the  blind  infatuation  with  the  will  o'  the  wisp  of 
political  action,  there  straggled  flittingly  McGraw  and 
Kisterling  and  half  a  dozen  other  men  whom  he  knew 
to  be  not  only  absolutely  honest — for  every  Labour 
member  was  that — ^but  militant  and  idealist. 

The  fine  freedom  of  the  Syndicalist  faith — the  clean, 


162  DEMOCRACY 

direct  solution  for  all  social  evils — ^the  General  Strike 
...  all  this  seemed  pitiful  also  in  face  of  the  facts. 
He  knew  that  Syndicalism  had  scarcely  a  foothold  in 
the  Unions — he  knew,  though  he  often  tried  not  to 
know,  that  even  the  Syndicalist  leaders  themselves, 
and  always  with  the  exception  of  Creegan,  whilst 
talking  so  much  of  idealism  in  politics,  were  sometimes 
far  from  being  idealist  in  their  lives.  What  was  the 
use  of  it  all  ? 

Then  there  came  to  him  Creegan.  Creegan,  the 
indomitable,  brutal  tyrant  of  the  workers.  Creegan, 
the  self-educated  Irishman  from  a  Dublin  back-block. 
Creegan,  the  most  despised  and  attacked  man  in  the 
Labour  movement,  fighting  a  lone  hand  not  only 
against  the  apathy  of  the  Unions  but  even  against  the 
Labour  leaders  themselves. 

Creegan,  the  dreamer,  who  even  admitted  that  vi- 
sions came  to  him  in  the  night  watches.  Creegan,  the 
devout  Romanist,  who  believed  in  saints  and  devils, 
and  who  was  cursed  and  disowned  by  the  hierarchy 
of  his  own  church.  Creegan — the  beaten,  broken 
Creegan. 

It  was  with  that  figure  of  the  beaten,  broken  man 
that  now  came  to  him  a  feeling  of  fatality — the  feeling 
that  whatever  the  cost  to  himself,  and  despite  what  he 
knew  to  be  his  own  passion  for  domination,  he  would 
follow  Brian  Creegan  to  the  end  of  the  road.  He  knew 
that  he,  like  the  others,  was  caught  up  in  a  machine 
from  which  he  was  powerless  to  free  himself,  which 
he  could  not  control,  and  which  might  either  absorb 
him,  or  spew  him  out  a  broken,  bloody  mass.  But  for 
good  or  ill  he  was  part  of  that  machine — the  turning, 
rending,  blind  machine  of  Labour. 

He  was  roused  from  the  vision  he  had  conjured  by 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR       163 

the  voice  of  Creegan  himself,  who  was  asking  the  girl 
to  give  him  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  scones  "or  anything 
you  have,  Miss."  Creegan  had  a  great  love  for  tea, 
which  he  drank  poisonously  strong,  and  it  was  an  old 
bone  of  contention  between  Destin  and  himself,  for 
Destin,  who  had  a  lust  for  reformation  not  second  to 
Creegan's  own,  had  a  habit  of  going  into  minutiae  of 
this  kind.    But  Creegan  still  drank  his  tea. 

It  was  to  lay  their  plans  for  the  coming  Workers* 
Party  Congress  to  be  held  in  the  next  week  at  Circester 
that  Creegan  had  asked  him  to  meet  him.  Destin  was 
now  a  sort  of  Assistant  Secretary  to  the  Transport 
Union,  of  which  Creegan  was  the  Secretary,  working 
a  few  hours  each  evening  after  his  journalism  and 
receiving  the  nominal  remuneration  of  ten  shillings 
a  week,  so  as  to  make  him  a  paid  agent  of  the  society, 
and  therefore  "a  Transport  Worker."  He  and  Cree- 
gan, amongst  others,  were  the  delegates  to  the  coming 
Congress. 

Creegan  as  he  bent  over  his  tea  looked  like^  man 
with  a  beaten  head.  Destin  could  almost  see  the  marks 
of  the  Big  Stick — ^but  the  spirit  was  dauntless  as  ever. 
He  found  this  dour  Irishman  entirely  uncowed,  and 
when  he  had  heard  him  plunge  into  the  machinery  of 
the  Congress  to  come,  laying  his  plans  carefully,  he 
felt  again  that,  short  of  killing  him,  the  man  did  not 
live  who  could  stop  Brian  Creegan. 

The  Congress  was  vital  to  Labour  it  seemed,  for  in 
it  the  Syndicalists  were  about  to  make  their  first  Con- 
gress attack  upon  the  fort  of  Political  Action.  It  gave 
new  vitality  to  the  man  listening  to  him,  as  he  spoke,  a 
flush  on  his  face,  of  the  possibilities  of  the  Congress — 
"if  we  can  only  get  our  fellows  to  work  together."  He 
repeated — "if  we  can  only  get  our  fellows  to  work 


164  DEMOCRACY 

together."  That  had  always  been  the  difficulty 
amongst  the  Syndicalists,  who,  demanding  the  freest 
individual  action,  were  rather  a  handful,  and  Creegan 
alone  could  do  anything  with  them.  Even  Creegan  at 
times,  domineering  as  he  was,  feared  to  go  too  far,  for 
though  a  Syndicalist  himself,  his  Union  still  favoured 
political  as  well  as  strike  action,  though,  under  his 
lead,  the  Syndicalists  had  managed  to  get  most  of  the 
chief  positions.  He  generally  drove  them  on  the  curb, 
1)ut  sometimes  used  the  light  rein. 

It  was  outside  the  Town  Hall  at  Circester  a  week 
later  that  Destin  again  met  his  chief.  He  was  stand- 
ing in  the  cold  wind  of  the  March  morning,  his  dust 
overcoat  buttoned  close  around  his  neck,  the  invariable 
long  cheroot  in  his  mouth  jutting  at  an  aggressive 
angle  under  the  sugar-loaf  hat  which  brimmed  the 
whole.  Around  him  were  twenty  or  thirty  delegates, 
who  were  listening  to  some  final  word.  While  he  was 
speaking,  Johnson,  the  chairman  of  the  Workers' 
Party,  came  past,  smiling  in  the  grim  good-humour 
of  a  man  on  the  successful  side,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
the  group.  Steltham  walked  a  few  steps  behind,  but 
there  was  no  question  of  the  darkling  of  his  smile. 

Men  were  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  building; 
lounging  in  the  passages ;  talking  around  the  brilliant 
red  bookstall  covered  with  Socialist  publications;  and 
when  Destin  walked  to  his  place  almost  under  the 
gallery  of  the  hall,  with  its  long  trestle  tables  covered 
neatly  with  sheets  of  foolscap,  pencils,  printed  leaflets, 
and  agendas  of  the  Congress,  he  heard  the  scuttering 
and  mumbling  of  the  delegates  who  were  slowly  taking 
their  places. 

Steltham  was  the  chairman  of  the  Congress.  He 
sat  up  there  on  the  platform  frowning  over  the  agenda 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR       165 

before  him.  Ranged  on  either  side  of  him  were  the 
other  members  of  the  executive,  men  of  all  types  from 
burly  navvies  and  broad,  smooth-faced  miners,  to  wiry 
engineers.  Those  were  the  Seats  of  the  Mighty,  and 
when  Steltham  jerked  himself  to  his  feet  and  struck 
the  bell  before  him,  the  delegates  who  were  still  strag- 
gling into  the  hall,  hurried  to  their  places  and  sat 
expectant. 

Steltham  read  his  chairman's  address.  It  began 
"My  Friends,"  and  after  running  through  the  events 
of  the  previous  year,  breathed  a  placid  hope  for  the 
best  possible  results  of  their  deliberations.  It  was  a 
non-committal  address  and,  if  anything,  lacked  origi- 
nality and  forcefulness,  though  here  and  there  broke  a 
sentence  of  singular  strength,  and  even  of  revolution, 
which  sounded  oddly  upon  the  lips  of  the  man  himself. 
Destin  could  not  help  but  feel  that  this  man  was  torn 
between  two  policies — he  had  noticed  it  at  the  Great 
North- Western — ^between  his  natural  and  fundamental 
cautiousness  and  a  certain  unruly,  revolutionary  feel- 
ing which  would  not  be  stifled,  but  sometimes  popped 
its  head  up  until  it  was  smothered  by  caution.  Stel- 
tham could  never  forget,  nor  was  he  allowed  to  for- 
get, that  he  was  "the  Strong  Man  of  the  movement." 

When  he  had  finished,  there  was  hearty  applause, 
for  Steltham  appealed  to  nearly  every  man  there.  It 
was  then  it  came  to  Destin  that  this  assembly,  like  that 
other,  did  everything  "decently  and  in  order,"  for  the 
organ  over  the  platform  burst  into  an  old  hymn  tune 
as  the  Mayor  of  the  town,  a  little  penguin-man  in  red 
robes  and  gold  chain,  with  mace-bearer  and  aldermen 
complete,  waddled  solemnly  on  to  the  platform  to  read 
his  address  of  welcome  to  the  city.  His  message,  like 
Steltham's,  breathed  the  spirit  of  good-will.     There 


166  DEMOCRACY 

was  a  certain  sonorous  vagueness  about  his  speech, 
which  had  many  rolUng  phrases — "national  impor- 
tance;*' "united  deHberations ;"  "all  parties  agreed," 
and  so  on.  The  Mayor  even  sang  the  concluding 
labour  song  led  by  the  organ — though  he  stood  a  little 
stiffly  perhaps — and  when  he  had  done  so,  retired  as 
solemnly  as  he  had  entered,  with  his  train  of  aldermen 
and  preceded  by  the  mace-bearer,  to  the  rousing  cheers 
of  the  delegates,  who  seemed  to  Destin  to  be  rather 
like  schoolboys  out  for  a  rag.  It  was  evidently  their 
desire  to  be  on  the  best  terms  with  everybody.  There 
was  nothing  revolutionary  about  them. 

They  plunged  into  the  agenda,  after  electing  a 
Standing  Orders  Committee  to  expedite  the  business 
of  the  Congress.  As  the  chairman  read  out  resolution 
after  resolution — all  of  the  "pious"  sort,  he  heard  a 
Transport  Worker  growl  to  his  mate — the  delegates 
chaunted  "agreed — agreed,"  as  though  they  were  a 
congregation  responding  to  a  priest. 

There  was  a  hypnotism  about  the  proceedings,  as 
half  a  dozen  resolutions  were  rapidly  polished  off,  to 
the  confusion  of  Destin,  who  vainly  tried  to  follow 
them  on  the  agenda  before  him,  when  an  insignificant 
resolution  came  up  which  stated  that  the  Congress  was 
agreed  upon  the  arbitration  board  as  the  best  method 
of  settling  disputes  between  Capital  and  Labour. 

"Is  it  agreed,  my  friends?"  asked  the  chairman 
blandly.  "Agreed — agreed"  was  being  murmured 
when  there  cut  across  the  drone  angry  "No,  no's." 
The  peace  of  the  Congress  was  disturbed.  It  was  the 
first  feeling  out  of  the  rival  parties. 

Creegan  had  told  Destin  that  he  had  been  unable 
to  get  his  men  together  before  the  Congress  as  had 
been  agreed,  so  as  to  fix  their  final  plans  of  action. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      167 

There  were  stray  Syndicalist  delegates  from  other 
Unions,  but  their  action  it  seemed  was  a  little  uncer- 
tain. The  only  thing  that  had  been  arranged  was  that 
Wildish  should  lead  off  in  opposing  arbitration.  It 
seemed  that,  despite  his  general  rebelliousness,  the 
orthodoxy  of  the  Clerks'  Union,  which  had  sent  him 
as  its  representative,  had  broken  down  before  the 
magic  of  the  "M.P.'*  after  his  name. 

Now,  Creegan  searched  the  benches,  looking  eagerly 
for  the  broad,  smiling  face,  but  no  Wildish  arose. 
Consequently,  a  young  Syndicalist  a  few  paces  away, 
unknown,  but  eager  to  win  his  spurs,  jumped  up,  to 
Creegan*s  chagrin,  and  in  a  speech,  voluble  and  reso- 
nant, as  though  he  were  haranguing  a  crowd  in  Tra- 
falgar Square,  he  opposed  the  resolution. 

When  he  opened,  it  was  not  difficult  to  see  the  com- 
placency of  the  men  on  the  platform.  There  was  a 
sort  of  "The  Lord  hath  delivered  the  enemy  into  our 
hands"  about  them,  which  was  particularly  galling. 
Yet  Steltham  showed  the  speaker  every  latitude — for 
again  and  again  when  he  wandered  from  the  main  res- 
olution, chasing  all  sorts  of  will  o'  the  wisps  down  all 
kinds  of  by-paths,  the  courteous  guiding  hand  of  the 
chairman  brought  him  gently  back  again  instead  of 
ruling  him  out  of  order. 

When  the  chairman  at  last  had  banged  his  bell  more 
than  once  to  enforce  the  time  limit,  and  only  then,  the 
young  stalwart,  a  compositor,  whose  delicate  frame 
and  pasty  face  gave  the  lie  to  a  tremendous  voice,  sat 
down  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  quite  spoiling  any 
effect  the  speech  might  have  had.  The  honest  faces  of 
the  workers  grinned  delightedly.  The  speech  had  "cut 
no  ice." 

"Let  it  go  now !"  growled  Creegan  under  his  breath. 


168  DEMOCRACY 

"But,  curse  him!  where's  Wildish?"  He  got  his  an- 
swer, for  at  that  moment,  cheerful  as  ever,  Wildish,  a 
good-humored  grin  on  his  face,  came  in,  making  his 
way  to  Creegan's  side — "Awfully  sorry,  Brian,  old  boy 
— ^but  I  met  a  friend/'    Creegan  gave  him  his  shoulder. 

The  Syndicalist  amendment  was  lost  by  an  over- 
whelming show  of  hands.  Wildish  made  an  attempt 
to  challenge  the  vote  and  demanded  a  ballot  in  a 
loud  voice,  slightly  hoarse.  But  Creegan  pulled  him 
down. 

It  was  however  but  a  skirmish — the  main  issue 
would  be  raised  later.  But  the  politicals  had  won  the 
first  round — ^and  as  Destin  knew  by  now,  these  first 
rounds  had  a  habit  of  deciding  the  big  issues  later. 

A  stream  of  resolutions  ran  easily  off  the  chairman's 
bat.  The  Congress  was  again  peaceful,  but  it  was  the 
peace  of  the  boa  constrictor  after  digestion. 

One  of  the  men  who  took  part  in  the  debate  struck 
him.  He  was  the  Secretary  of  a  Dockers'  Union, 
whose  broken,  scarred  face  proclaimed  the  danger  of 
his  former  toil  in  an  explosives  factory.  It  was  this 
broken  object,  the  face  drawn  to  one  side  in  a  grin, 
who  with  dry  humour  and  loving  outlook  on  life,  made 
the  delegates  laugh  again  and  again. 

Once  more  it  was  borne  in  on  him  that  the  Labour 
leader  was  not  a  type — that  in  "the  movement"  all 
types  were  to  be  found.  For  this  man  was  followed 
by  a  blonde  chestnut  giant  from  the  Yorkshire  cotton 
mills,  and  he  by  a  little  black-eyed  middle-class  woman 
who  made  her  way  to  the  heart  of  the  Congress  in  a 
cultured,  restrained  voice.  Here,  a  lanky  engineer 
from  a  London  shed  was  followed  by  a  little  man 
under  five  feet  with  a  trombone  voice,  who  rose  from 
under  his  arm  and  who  stared  owl-like  after  he  had 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR       169 

made  each  point  to  see  its  effect.  Saturnine  men  suc- 
ceeded easy-going  men — ^men  of  humour,  men  of  ac- 
tion— and  men  of  action,  men  of  the  study.  This 
indeed  was  a  colony  of  types ;  all  devoted  to  one  end. 
The  Syndicalists  alone  formed  a  group  type — ^both  in 
speech  and  action.  But  he  found  that  the  Syndicalists 
did  not  count,  with  the  exception  of  Creegan,  who  had 
a  certain  dour  influence  of  his  own,  even  amongst  those 
who  disliked  him  and  his  methods. 

Destin  had  been  turning  over  his  particular  second- 
ing speech  on  the  main  resolution  of  policy,  when 
there  was  a  silence.  All  eyes  were  turned  on  the  plat- 
form, where  a  flash  of  scarlet  caught  the  eye.  This 
flash  of  scarlet  had  been  running  backwards  and  for- 
wards at  the  back  of  the  hall  during  the  whole 
morning  in  Destines  eye,  though  he  had  been  too 
engaged  to  notice  it  more  distinctly.  Then  he  re- 
membered. 

It  was  Satalia,  the  woman  he  had  heard  that  day 
in  the  summer  in  Hyde  Park.  The  chairman  was 
introducing  her  as  the  fraternal  delegate  of  the 
French  Transport  Workers,  and  was  asking  for  sus- 
pension of  the  Standing  Orders — those  Standing 
Orders  which  were  a  sort  of  religious  seal  upon  the 
whole  of  the  proceedings — in  order  that  she  might 
be  heard,  after  which,  he  said,  they  would  take  the 
resolution  upon  party  policy,  to  be  moved  by  the 
Transport  Workers.  A  shout  of  assent  went  up  from 
the  delegates,  who  roared  full-lunged  at  the  striking, 
though  rather  flamboyant  figure  which  now  took  the 
centre  of  the  platform. 

She  wore  the  same  Buffalo  Bill  hat,  slashed  with 
scarlet — ^turned  up  very  much  on  one  side  and  down 
on  the  other,  and  a  tight-fitting  costume  of  smooth 


170  DEMOCRACY 

blue  serge,  red-bodiced.  The  tiny  hands  sunk  in  the 
natty  side  pockets  of  her  jacket,  the  Frenchwoman 
began  to  speak  in  excellent  English. 

Yet,  Destin  could  not  but  feel  that  this  theatrical 
appearance  made  the  sober-looking  men  around  him 
uneasy.  They  listened  with  courtesy  it  is  true,  but 
with  an  air  of  unmistakable  dissent  if  not  of  boredom, 
for  the  whole  of  the  speech  was  a  violent  incitement 
to  Direct  Action,  which,  according  to  the  speaker, 
alone  gave  the  workers  a  chance  with  the  masters. 
It  was,  she  said,  sweeping  over  Italy,  France,  and 
Spain,  whilst  its  beginning  in  England  presaged  final 
victory. 

Here  again  Destin  found  that  ingrained  love  of  facts. 
For  the  first  time,  a  low  grumble  of  dissent  went  up, 
circled,  and  subsided. 

"No,  no." 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  on  the  platform,  which 
moved  curiously  independent  of  each  other,  as  one 
sometimes  sees  in  dogs  and  Spanish  dancers,  ran 
around  the  hall.  From  where  he  sat,  he  caught  the 
gleam  of  the  free  eye.  It  brightened  as  a  counter  of 
approval  came  from  Creegan's  men  in  different  parts 
of  the  hall,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  regarded  this 
minority  as  the  dominating  fraction,  for  her  voice, 
which  had  halted  for  a  moment,  took  its  old  note  of 
confidence,  pointing  out  the  vast  strikes  of  the  pre- 
vious months  as  evidence  of  the  revolutionary  spirit 
of  the  British  workers.  She  was  swimming  along 
when  a  voice  in  broad  Yorkshire  boomed  across  her 
own — "Nay,  lass,  thou  doesn't  know  t'Englishmen !" 
A  roar  of  laughter  followed,  which  killed  the  speech, 
the  lady,  after  a  concluding  sentence  or  two,  retiring 
as  gracefully  as  possible. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      171 

Steltham  was  courtesy  itself,  bowing  to  her  ere  she 
left,  but  when  he  turned  to  the  agenda  it  was  with 
a  certain  satisfaction  in  his  face. 

"May  I  venture  to  suggest  that  we  take  the  reso- 
lution on  Labour  Policy,  friends,"  he  asked,  "so  that 
after  lunch  we  can  get  on  with  the  mass  of  other 
business  waiting?" 

A  chorus  of  "Ayes!"  went  up. 

"No,  no!"  protested  the  Syndicalists. 

"If  he  rushes  this  through  before  lunch  we  won't  get 
a  discussion,"  Creegan  whispered  to  Destin,  shouting 
"No,  no!"  at  intervals.  But  the  Congress  was  over- 
whelmingly in  favour  of  taking  the  resolution  then, 
and  the  Syndicalists  once  more  found  themselves 
beaten  by  what  Creegan  called  "the  caucus,"  which 
according  to  him  settled  all  these  things  to  a  hair's 
breadth  ere  they  entered  the  hall,  giving  them  a  big, 
though  he  did  not  say  unfair,  advantage  over  the 
Direct  Actionists,  who  never  seemed  able  to  get  to- 
gether. He  admitted  that  in  their  place  he  would  do 
the  same.  This  rather  shocked  Destin,  who  had  al- 
ways put  these  unworthy  tricks  of  political  card-play- 
ing down  to  the  politicals. 

The  resolution  itself  was  scarcely  more  than  half  a 
dozen  words — "That  this  Congress  of  the  Workers' 
Party  affirms  its  belief  in  Parliamentary  action  as  the 
main  line  for  Labour's  advance." 

Destin  expected  to  see  one  of  the  older  members  of 
the  Party  get  up  to  move  the  resolution,  but  was 
surprised  when  a  young  delegate,  who,  incidentally, 
had  been  a  Direct  Actionist  up  to  the  year  before  and 
was  therefore  "a  traitor,"  catch  the  chairman's  eye. 

This  young  man,  a  Scotsman,  was  admirably  cool 
and  restrained.    He  outlined  forcefully  but  with  mod- 


172  DEMOCRACY 

eration  the  victories  won  in  Parliament  from  the  in- 
ception of  the  Party  there.  He  touched  lightly  and 
not  unkindly  upon  the  failure  of  the  strike  in  the 
previous  months,  and  avowed  with  a  frankness  that 
won  the  mass  of  the  delegates  his  own  conversion 
from  Syndicalism.  .  .  .  "The  Great  Strike  was  the 
cold  douche  that  brought  me  to  my  senses." 

"Rat!  rat!"  yelled  the  young  Syndicalist  who  had 
spoken.  In  a  moment  the  chairman  was  on  his  feet 
and  waving  the  Scotsman  to  his  seat. 

"Just  a  moment,  my  friends,"  he  said  soothingly, 
but  with  that  sureness  underneath  which  Destin  had 
seen  before.  "In  this  assembly  we  pride  ourselves 
upon  our  good  manners.  That  last  word  is,  if  I  may 
say  so,  not  only  unparliamentary  but  dirty.  'Dirty,' 
I  said.  As  a  matter  of  decency,  and  I  hope  the  gentle- 
men of  the  press  will  ignore  the  incident,  I  ask  you  to 
withdraw  it." 

"Withdraw!  withdraw!"  was  shouted.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  angry  delegate  showed  fight,  but  finally  made 
a  sort  of  apology,  which  was  applauded  by  the  dele- 
gates as  the  amende  honorable. 

"Now  the  debate  can  go  on,"  said  Steltham  settling 
himself  comfortably  in  his  chair. 

It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  debate,  but  Destin 
felt  in  that  moment  that  the  interrupting  delegate  had 
destroyed  the  Syndicalist  case.  Good  manners  he 
found  were  not  the  privilege  of  the  aristocrat,  but  were 
also  worshipped  by  that  strange  animal,  Demos.  "Put 
yourself  wrong  with  the  Congress,"  growled  Creegan, 
"and  you  might  as  well  stay  outside." 

The  mover  of  the  political  policy  resolution  resumed 
his  speech,  being  enthusiastically  cheered  as  he  made 
his  points.     Labour  loved  nothing  so  much  as  the 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      173 

prodigal  son,  and  always  had  the  fatted  calf  warmed 
and  ready. 

Creegan  had  been  called  out  to  see  an  Irish  friend 
who  brought  him  urgent  news  from  Belfast.  He 
went,  telling  Destin  he  would  return  in  a  moment  to 
move  the  amendment,  as  it  was  obvious  that  the  advo- 
cate of  political  policy  having  another  fifteen  minutes 
to  go,  would  use  them.  As  it  happened,  this  young 
man  who  had  a  very  shrewd  head  on  very  young 
shoulders,  caught  sight  of  Creegan  leaving  the  hall, 
and  instantly  saw  a  chance  for  a  coup.  Saying  that 
the  case  for  Parliamentary  action  was  so  obvious,  he 
did  not  propose  to  burden  the  delegates  with  any  more 
arguments,  he  sat  down  abruptly.  The  delegates,  who 
seemed  to  like  nothing  better  than  a  long  speech  ex- 
cept a  short  one,  gave  him  wholehearted  applause. 

"Any  amendment?"  asked  the  chairman,  turning 
instinctively  to  Creegan's  empty  place.  The  eye  of 
every  delegate  followed  his  own,  waiting  for  the  form 
of  the  Syndicalist  chief  to  rise.  But  there  was  no 
Creegan. 

"If  there  is  no  amendment,  and  it  having  been 
seconded,  I  propose  to  put  the  resolution,"  said  the 
chairman  evenly,  when  Destin,  staggered  for  a  mo- 
ment by  Creegan's  absence,  sprang  into  the  breach, 
and  rose,  saying — *T  move  an  amendment." 

Agitated  though  he  was,  from  where  he  stood  he 
could  see  something  like  disappointment  upon  the  faces 
of  the  executive.  McGraw  alone  smiled.  It  heartened 
him. 

Destines  was  the  one  speech  that  filled  the  headlines 
of  the  capitalist  papers  the  following  day,  for  it  was 
the  first  attack  ever  made  in  the  Workers'  Congress 
upon  parliamentary  policy.     He  excelled  himself,  for 


174  DEMOCRACY 

always  braced  to  the  big  occasion,  he  took  his  points 
One  by  one,  making  them,  if  more  passionately,  as 
coolly  as  the  man  who  had  moved  the  resolution.  His 
depression  vanished  in  a  moment  under  the  stimulus 
of  battle.  Like  another  Sir  Galahad  he  felt  that  his 
was  a  holy  mission — ^that  his  weapon  was  not  the 
tongue  but  the  sword — that  he  was  a  pioneer  of  his 
time. 

Like  the  policy  he  represented,  he  used  the  direct 
action  method,  going  straight  for  the  heart  of  the 
enemy.  With  a  sweeping  brush  he  painted  in  the  story 
of  the  Great  North-Western  conference — of  the  Big 
Stick — ^and  then  in  more  delicate  colours  the  stiletto 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  For  the  disastrous  defeat 
of  the  strike  he  made  no  apologies,  emerging  from  the 
welter  with  the  flag  of  revolution  in  his  hands,  and 
prophesying  with  the  fires  of  fanaticism  now  burning 
through  the  caution  of  his  earlier  periods,  the  anni- 
hilation of  the  Parliamentarians  and  the  coming  of 
the  General  Strike. 

Lost  to  his  surroundings  in  his  Celtic  abandonment, 
he  had  not  seen  Creegan  steal  in  as  he  spoke.  It  was 
not  until  he  felt  the  sinewy  hand  pressing  the  hollow 
of  his  arm  and  heard  the  voice — "Well  done,  boy!" 
that  he  knew  the  joys  of  approving  comradeship.  In 
that  moment  he  felt  a  great  happiness. 

Creegan  saw  that  any  attempt  at  a  speech  would 
destroy  the  effect  of  his  lieutenant,  so  he  contented 
himself  with  formally  seconding. 

Yet  even  here  Destin  would  have  wished  to  have 
had  a  less  noisy  appreciation  when  he  had  finished. 
There  had  been  a  silence — the  silence  which  told  him 
that  he  had  got  home,  when  his  followers,  led  by 
Wildish,  who  had  no  jealousy,  had  jumped  to  their 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      175 

feet,  screaming  incoherently.  It  was  once  more  what 
he  was  finding  to  be  the  fatal  exuberance  of  the 
Syndicalist.  No  doubt  it  sprang  from  an  overwhelm- 
ing belief  in  direct  action,  and  it  was  all  very  well  in 
its  way,  but  it  had  a  habit  of  coming  in  at  the  wrong 
moment. 

When  he  had  finished,  speeches  were  made  by  men 
from  either  side — many  of  them  young  men  obviously 
anxious  "to  get  there."  He  wondered  why  the  older 
leaders  of  the  Parliamentarians  had  not  spoken,  when 
he  found  that  they  had  been  reserving  themselves  to 
the  last. 

The  man  they  had  chosen  to  speak  for  them  was 
McGraw,  above  all  others.  McGraw  whom  Destin 
nearly  loved.  And  it  was  McGraw,  standing  up,  who 
was  now  speaking. 

It  was  McGraw  who  in  his  broad  Scottish  compli- 
mented Destin  on  his  speech,  which  he  described  as 
"bonny"  .  .  .  "which  gives  us  all  the  assurance  of  a 
promising  career,  which  I  hope,"  he  added  with  a 
twinkle,  "will  be  devoted  to  the  interests  of  political 
action."  With  the  skill  of  the  old  hand,  he  showed 
that  political  action  was  not  opposed  to  strike  action. 
"They  are  like  husband  and  wife,  comrades — when 
they  pull  together  they  can  move  mountains — divided, 
they  perish.  They  may  quarrel  ye  ken,  but  heaven 
help  anybody  who  tries  to  come  between  them." 

A  shout  of  laughter  went  up,  and  in  it  Destin  found 
that  laughter,  not  anger,  was  the  great  solvent. 

McGraw  continued — "We  stand  for  the  dual  policy 
— our  opponents  for  a  one-armed,  and,  let  me  add, 
one-eyed  policy.  The  Syndicalist  strike-weapon  is  a 
two-edged  sword  which  may  or  may  not  kill  its  enemy 
in  its  sweep,  but  which  may  cut  the  man  who  holds  it 


176  DEMOCRACY 

on  Its  return  swing.  My  own  wing  of  tlie  Workers* 
Party  may  not  always  see  eye  to  eye  with  their  com- 
rades, may  sometimes  think  that  we  tak'  too  little 
whuskey  in  our  water,  but  that  doesn't  mean  we  are 
going  over  to  pure  spirit — to  the  delirium  of  direct 
action  unwatered  by  political  action." 

It  was  this  shrewd,  honest,  forceful  Scotsman — ^the 
patriarch  of  Labour — ^beloved  by  all,  who  turned  any 
transient  ideas  of  Syndicalism  away  from  the  dele- 
gates, the  card  vote  leaving  the  Syndicalists  over- 
whelmed. Even  as  he  listened,  it  seemed  to  Destin 
that  he  was  being  seduced  from  the  faith.  The  man 
himself  looked  so  clean  and  "good" — so  different  to 
the  many  Syndicalist  leaders  he  had  known,  men, 
sometimes,  of  unrestrained  .action,  political  and  moral 
— that  he  felt  though  his  heart  lay  with  the  Syndi- 
calists, something  deeper  yet  called  to  him  to  take  his 
place  in  the  ranks  of  his  present  adversaries. 

But  one  look  at  Creegan  made  him  forget  all  that. 
This  was  his  peerless  knight — the  man  whose  escut- 
cheon had  never  been  stained.  Brian  Creegan  at  least 
was  pure-hearted  and  pure-souled. 

Yet  for  that  day  and  many«days  after,  these  things 
flitted  shadow-like  across  the  retina  of  his  mind. 
Persons  and  policies — principles  and  parties — ^became 
inextricably  blended.  He  found  himself  in  despair 
trying  to  find  the  truth  of  these  things,  and  failing. 

Destin  had  been  up  in  the  gallery  to  see  Creegan, 
when,  looking  about  him,  he  heard  Creegan's  voice 
behind  him — "This  is  Mr.  Destin.  Denis — a  country- 
woman of  ours — one  of  the  Danes,  though  she  hasn't 
red  hair."  It  was  one  of  Creegan's  rare  attempts  at 
humour,  and  had  reference  to  a  popular  superstition 
in  the  South  of  Ireland. 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      177 

Destin  looked  into  the  face  of  a  slender  girl  in  the 
middle  twenties,  whose  green  eyes  searched  him  in- 
differently but  surely.  With  her  frame  of  thick,  black- 
brown  hair,  with  something  of  bronze  caught  in  its 
meshes,  cut  squarely  to  the  neck  and  brushed  rather 
low  on  the  high,  square  forehead,  she  seemed  to  have 
a  quality  different  to  that  of  any  woman  he  had  seen. 
Her  dress,  of  some  rough  green  stuff,  close-fitting  and 
in  one  piece,  cut  away  around  the  clean,  firm  neck,  set 
off  her  graceful,  rather  boyish  figure. 

But  it  was  to  the  eyes  of  this  girl  who  now  sat  by 
his  side  looking  down  into  the  body  of  the  hall,  the 
eyes  with  the  strange  green  lights  in  them,  to  which  he 
always  returned.  They  permeated  him  like  a  flow  of 
water,  leaving  no  distinct  impression  behind,  but  only 
a  glow — an  influence. 

He  asked  her  the  part  of  Ireland  from  which  she 
came,  and  caught  the  deep  resonance  of  the  voice  with 
the  slightest  Southern  roll — a  brogue  so  faint  that  it 
ran  through  the  colder  English  like  the  voice  of 
the  curling  wave  upon  the  iron  beach.  For  there 
was  something  of  iron  as  well  as  softness  in  the 
voice. 

She  was  from  the  South,  the  child  of  a  Danish 
father  and  an  Irish  mother,  born  and  reared  in  Ireland. 
She  had,  however,  travelled  much  with  her  father,  he 
discovered  afterwards,  and  had  studied  the  Labour 
movement  in  many  countries,  having  just  published 
her  first  book,  a  novel,  using  the  movement  as  her 
basis. 

"There's  a  man  who  will  break  his  heart  one  day." 

She  was  looking  down  at  Creegan,  who  had  left 
them  and  who  was  now  challenging  a  platform  ruling 
in  low,  hard  tones.    The  sureness  of  the  girl  irritated 


178  DEMOCRACY 

him.  It  was  an  irritation  he  learned  to  know  well  in 
the  months  that  followed. 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  queried  a  little  impatiently. 
"There  are  not  many  who  know  Brian  Creegan." 

"I  know  him,"  she  said  quietly. 

In  a  moment  Destin  had  launched  into  an  argument 
in  which  all  the  protestation  was  on  his  side.  No, 
Creegan  was  going  on  from  strength  to  strength  to 
triumph  over  his  enemies. 

"But  who  are  his  enemies?"  the  girl  interposed 
quietly — "Mr.  McGraw  or  the  capitalist  class?  Won't 
you  put  a  name  on  them  ?"  There  was  quiet  irony  in 
the  Irish  idiom  as  it  came  from  her  lips. 

Destin  came  to  a  halt.  Who  were  Creegan's  ene- 
mies? For  years  he  had  been  embattled  quite  as  much 
with  the  politicals,  as  with  the  hated  capitalists.  But, 
after  all,  it  was  Steltham  and  Manby  who  prevented 
Creegan  from  doing  his  work  effectively  for  the  re- 
generation of  society.  Anyone  could  see  at  a  glance 
in  the  present  Congress  as  one  had  seen  it  in  past 
Congresses,  that  these  politicals  were  playing  only  for 
their  own  hands — that  they  were  labour-fakirs  and 
labour-hazers.     Could  she  deny  it? 

"Do  you  include  McGraw?"  she  asked  again,  a  little 
smile  at  the  back  of  her  eyes,  which  shone  greenly. 

Destin  knew  that  if  she  had  said  Steltham  or  Belch 
or  Manby  or  Johnson,  he  would  have  felt  himself  free 
to  reply.  But  McGraw — ^and  the  McGraw  sort  in  the 
Independent  Socialists — that  was  different.  He  could 
not,  dare  not,  launch  the  fulminations  he  would  have 
launched  if  the  others  had  been  mentioned. 

He  fell  back  upon  neutral  ground. 

"Can't  you  see  the  trickery  and  wire-pulling  at  the 
present  Congress?"  he  asked.    "Don't  you  know  they 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      179 

mean  to  kill  Creegan  if  they  can?  A  blind  man  could 
see  that,"  he  said  rudely.  There  was  something  about 
the  quietness  and  quickness  of  this  girl  that  was  exas- 
perating. 

"If  you  Syndicalists  were  in  the  same  position  as  the 
politicals — wouldn't  you  do  the  same?  .  .  .  Now 
wouldn't  you?"  she  added  in  pleading  irony. 

He  was  about  to  deny  it  indignantly,  when  he  re- 
membered Creegan's  assertion  to  the  contrary.  The 
girl  before  him  probably  knew  it  also.  He  was 
silent. 

"Can  ye  not  see,  for  even  a  blind  man  can  see  it — " 
the  little  earnest  face,  shrouded  in  its  short  black 
square-cut  hair,  smiled  at  him  sweetly — "can  ye  not 
see  that  all  these  Congresses,  like  the  men  behind  them, 
are  mixtures  of  good  and  evil — of  blacks  and  whites 
and  greys?  Can  ye  not  see  that  these  men  are  all 
more  or  less  mastered  by  the  machine — even  Brian 
Creegan?  Don't  ye  know  that  Torquemada  himself 
was  an  honest  fanatic — that  Creegan,  and  in  another 
sense  McGraw  and  Steltham,  are  also  honest  fanatics  ? 
Once  these  men  persuade  themselves  they  are  right — 
and  there  are  few  political  Machiavellis,  the  rest  is 
easy.  Everything  becomes  justified.  It  is  the  story 
of  the  Jesuitry  over  again — for  there  are  political  as 
well  as  religious  Jesuits.  Perhaps  we  are  all  Jesuits," 
she  said  a  little  wistfully. 

"But  if  what  you  say  is  true,  what  is  the  good  of 
democracy?"  he  asked,  in  blind  anger  and  disappoint- 
ment. "If  the  people's  leaders  are  Jesuits — what  is  the 
good  of  the  people  who  elect  them  ?  Isn't  anarchy  the 
only  thing  left  open  to  a  reasonable  man  ?" 

"There  is  always  the  common  people  behind,"  she 
replied.     "The  common  people,  like  the  un-common. 


180  DEMOCRACY 

are  inexpressibly  brutal  and  cruel  and  stupid  and  intui- 
tive and  omniscient  and  true.  The  Collective  Con- 
sciousness is  a  terrible  machine — ^but  it  works  out 
absolutely  true  in  time.  The  people  make  mistakes. 
The  people  elect  the  wrong  men.  But  the  people  are 
always  the  heart  of  all  things,  good  and  evil.  To 
quarrel  with  the  people  is  to  quarrel  with  God.  They 
are  God." 

"Then  you,  even  you  who  criticise  so  freely,  make  a 
God  of  Democracy." 

*T  don't  make  it  a  God.  It  is  a  God.  The  majority 
is  always  wrong  and  always  right.  From  the  wrong 
majority  of  to-day  comes  the  conscious  and  right 
minority  of  to-morrow,  yielding  in  its  turn  to  the 
other  majorities — the  eternal  majority." 

The  girl  had  dropped  her  irony.  The  eyes  were 
flashing  greenly  and  surely.  The  pale  face  was  lighted. 
The  strong  straight  nose  and  pointed  square  jaw — like 
the  jaw  of  a  serpent — had  set.  She  was  sureness 
itself.  The  woman  of  the  future  was  speaking — the 
woman  of  intuition  and  consciousness. 

"Then  you  believe  in  Democracy?"  he  asked  de- 
spairing, trying  to  have  the  thing  brought  to  a  definite 
issue. 

'T  believe  in  nothing  but  myself,"  she  said,  and  she 
laughed  again.  *Tf  you  ask  me  whether  I  believe  in 
the  people,  I  say  I  must  do  so  if  I  am  to  believe  in 
myself.  .  .  .  But  you  surely  haven't  kept  me  here  to 
discuss  sociology.  I  am  only  a  girl  you  know,  and  here 
you  are  making  me  talk  like  Ecclesiastes." 

"But  then,  we  can't  all  be  right,"  Destin  said  finally. 

"We  are  all  right  and  all  wrong.  The  truth  doesn't 
lie  in  the  Syndicalist  any  more  than  it  lies  in  the 
political  camp — in  anarchy  any  more  than  in  collec- 


THE  PARLIAMENT  OF  LABOUR      181 

tivism.  The  truth  lies  between.  It  always  lies  be- 
tween.   The  truth  lies  in  paradox." 

And  it  was  on  that  word,  coming  so  strangely  from 
this  girl,  that  he  left  her.  Creegar\  was  beckoning  to 
him  from  the  hall. 

"Paradox.*'  "Syndicalism."  "Democracy."  The 
words  spun  through  his  brain.    But  always  "paradox." 

Perhaps  the  earth  was  not  intended  to  be  a  finish- 
ing school — ^but  only  a  place  of  paradox — a  place  of 
preparation  and  fight. 


XI 


THE  RIGHT   TO   LIVE 


At  this  time  Denis  Destin  had  his  hands  full.  Rush- 
ing from  one  thing. to  another,  he  Hved  on  his  nerves. 
He  had  become  a  sort  of  nerve-drunkard,  forced  to 
keep  moving,  satiating  himself  on  excitement.  He 
passed  from  meeting  to  meeting,  now  snatching  a  few 
hours  to  dash  off  an  article,  then  rushing  to  one  of 
Miss  Craven's  democratic  functions  at  Hampstead, 
where  he  plunged  himself  to  the  neck  in  argument, 
expostulation,  and  even  vituperation — then  sometimes 
to  one  of  the  Duchess  of  Chillington's  evenings, 
where  he  held  his  fashionable  audience,  and  himself, 
spell-bound  with  the  power  of  his  denunciation,  for 
by  now  he  had  become  quite  a  fashionable  revolu- 
tionist in  certain  select  circles. 

He  felt  more  and  more  that  he  was  a  person  who 
mattered.  Denis  Destin  was  drunk — drunk  on  de- 
mocracy. 

Fleet  Street  by  now  wanted  him.  He  found  as  one 
of  the  Fleet  Street  paradoxes  that  the  more  revolu- 
tionary and  the  more  inimical  to  Capital  he  became, 
the  more  Capital  ran  after  him.  The  Meteor  had  asked 
him  to  contribute  a  short  weekly  article  to  be  called 
"The  Labour  Thermometer,"  in  which  he  was  sup- 
posed to  have  exclusive  knowledge  of  the  temperature 
of  Demos.  He  was  in  a  constant  state  of  astonish- 
ment to  find  out  how  much  he  knew  and  how  accurate 

182 


THE  RIGHT  TO  LIVE  183 

were  his  forecasts.  These  things  came  to  him  "as  in  a 
glass,  darkly." 

But  everything  grated  him — even  success.  The 
more  successful  he  became,  and  the  quicker  those  pink 
cheques  unfolded  themselves,  the  more  angry  he  was. 
Yet  at  no  time  could  he  have  said  why  he  was  angry. 

There  was  Vesta  Craven  for  instance.  Whenever  he 
found  himself  near  her,  and  that  was  pretty  often,  she 
raw-edged  him.  They  had  been  on  the  verge  of 
quarrelling  more  than  once,  and  it  was  only  Miss 
Craven's  Admirable  tactf ulness  and  capacity  for  man- 
aging that  saved  a  breach.  And  nothing  angered  him 
more  than  her  tact,  even  whilst  it  mollified  him. 

Especially  since  the  Circester  Congress,  he  felt 
something  against  her  approaching  resentment,  and, 
as  he  had  to  acknowledge  to  himself,  for  no  real 
reason.  Perhaps  the  cavalier  fashion  in  which  she 
had  received  his  declaration  at  the  Hampstead  flat  had 
hurt  him.  Her  well-groomed  appearance — ^her  method 
of  holding  her  cigarette,  and  the  dainty  thoughtful 
way  in  which  she  cocked  her  little  chin  and  expelled  a 
thin  stream  of  smoke,  or  blew  a  smoke-ring,  all  worked 
upon  him  in  a  nervous  sort  of  way.  It  was  only  when 
he  was  away  from  her  that  she  attracted  him  now, 
though  he  knew  also  that  when  separated  from  her 
he  was  vaguely  uneasy ;  an  uneasiness  that  passed  only 
when  he  found  himself  once  more  by  her  side. 

Her  vegetarian,  votes-for-women,  anti-vivisection 
friends — ^all  frayed  his  nerves,  and  all  these  things  in 
some  inexplicable  way  were  entangled  with  that  Cir- 
cester gathering — with  his  new-found  doubts  about 
Syndicalism,  policies  and  principles — ^and  even  with 
Creegan  and  the  green-eyed  girl,  whom  he  had  seen 
occasionally,  who  jarred  him  like  those  other  things, 


184  DEMOCRACY 

but  differently.  Once  or  twice  he  had  seen  the  little 
whimsical  smile  coming  to  him  from  his  audiences,  a 
smile  that  always  drove  him  into  an  exaggeration  of 
statement  and  into  a  sort  of  intellectual  prickly-heat, 
which  appeared  to  amuse  her  more  than  ever.  How- 
ever, when  he  sought  her  out  after  the  meetings,  she 
had  always  disappeared. 

Perhaps  it  was  all  that  "neurasthenia  of  the  age"  of 
which  his  doctor  had  spoken. 

Driven  from  strength  to  strength,  his  only  relief 
was  to  lose  himself  in  his  meetings.  In  the  heart  of 
the  mob  he  found  his  solace,  and  in  the  fact  that  at 
last  the  efforts  of  Creegan  and  himself  seemed  to  be 
bearing  fruit.  For  Syndicalism  was  undoubtedly  pro- 
gressing amongst  the  Unions  if  he  were  to  take  his 
increasing  meetings  and  the  reports  of  the  younger 
men  as  a  guide. 

Above  all,  Creegan  pointed  to  the  great  strikes  of 
the  miners,  transport  workers,  and  railwaymen,  with 
the  phenomenon  of  impatience  with  and  even  the 
throwing  over  of  their  political  leaders  as  sure  evi- 
dence of  the  advance  of  Syndicalism  in  Great  Britain. 
They  took  it  all  as  presage  of  the  triumph  to  come, 
not  only  over  the  capitalists  but  over  the  politicals. 
(The  two  were  apt  to  get  confused  at  times.)  It  was 
the  "Syndicalist  Menace"  as  it  was  coming  to  be 
known,  and  only  the  Syndicalist  menace,  which  had 
forced  the  Masters  to  declare  themselves  outside  in 
the  country,  instead  of  playing  their  favourite  game 
of  Socialist-hazing  in  Parliament.  As  for  the  politi- 
cals in  Parliament,  by  now  they  were  regarded  in  all 
quarters  as  "tame  mice,"  where  they  were  not  ac- 
cused of  downright  dishonesty.  The  employers  at 
any  rate  did  not  fear  them. 


THE  RIGHT  TO  LIVE  185 

The  Syndicalists  were  much  heartened  by  a  series 
of  briUiant  articles,  sardonic  and  humorous,  appearing 
in  the  Daily  Meteor  under  the  name  "Paddy  Mac,"  in 
which  the  fatal  weaknesses  of  the  politicals  were  laid 
bare — the  articles  deriving  much  of  their  sting  from 
the  brief  editorial  announcement  that  they  were  writ- 
ten by  a  Socialist.  They  were  obviously  written  by  a 
man  with  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  movement, 
and  had  roused  the  labour  leaders  to  angry  expostula- 
tion and  recrimination,  especially  as  "Paddy  Mac"  was 
really  supposed  to  be  Kisterling,  who  by  now  was  at 
cross-purposes  with  his  party. 

Trade  Union  membership  had  been  lifting  fast  dur- 
ing the  previous  year  (another  proof  in  Creegan's  eyes 
of  the  Syndicalist  advance),  the  men's  war-chests  were 
now  filling  once  more,  and  even  the  Parliamentarians 
had  been  girding  up  their  loins  and  were  about  to 
embark  upon  an  all-round  8-Hour  Day  Campaign. 
Nasty  questions  had  been  asked  in  Parliament  about 
the  administration  of  certain  Boards  of  Conciliation, 
and  a  new  spirit,  under  the  stimulus  of  Syndicalism — 
at  least  that  was  what  the  Syndicalists  said — was 
showing  itself  amongst  the  labour  representatives  at 
Westminster.  There  had  been  rumours  indeed  that 
the  Party  was  divided  on  tactics,  a  growing  section 
favouring  a  more  militant  policy. 

However  that  might  be,  Destin  knew  from  his  con- 
versations with  editors  and  with  some  of  the  political 
leaders,  that  Capital  was  taking  fright.  There  were 
two  or  three  momentous  questions  upon  which  Labour 
was  concentrating  more  and  more — notably  the  ques- 
tion of  "difficult  places"  for  miners,  for  since  the  de- 
feat at  the  Great  North-Western  Conference  the  men 
had  been  more  and  more  discontented,  claiming  that 


186  DEMOCRACY 

as  coal  was  the  motive  power  that  drove  the  machine 
of  the  British  Empire,  they  were  entitled  to  special 
consideration. 

There  was  also  an  8-hour  day  for  railwaymen ;  and 
above  all  the  question  of  a  sliding-scale  standard  to 
keep  pace  with  the  ever  rising  cost  of  living.  The 
Labour  and  Socialist  papers,  and  even  sometimes  the 
Olympian's  columns,  were  filled  with  lines  of  figures 
comparing  prices  and  wages  from  year  to  year,  which 
showed  an  appalling  rise  in  prices  without  any  corre- 
sponding rise  in  wages. 

The  Government  had  even,  whilst  denying  the  dis- 
parity, promised  an  investigation,  to  the  indignation 
both  of  their  own  supporters  and  of  the  Opposition. 

But  it  was  upon  "The  Right  to  Work,*'  or  "The 
Right  to  Live"  as  it  was  coming  to  be  known,  that 
Labour  was  concentrating  behind  all  these  other 
schemes.  Labour,  in  a  word,  was  demanding  as  its 
right  the  provision  of  work  or  bread,  and  it  was  this 
outrageous  demand  which  the  Masters  feared  more 
than  anything  else,  both  Opposition  and  Government 
combining  in  the  division  lobby  against  an  amendment 
to  the  King's  Speech  which  had  this  object  in  view. 
It  was  felt  that  if  this  right  were  once  admitted,  the 
whole  fabric  of  the  competitive  system  would  be  under- 
mined, and  it  was  in  order  to  stave  off  this  demand,  and 
fearing  the  rising  power  of  Labour,  that  certain  con- 
cessions had  been  made  and  that  both  the  historic  par- 
ties were  showing  an  increased  tendency  to  combine 
against  the  common  enemy — a  phenomenon  that  re- 
peated itself  in  every  European  country — when  some- 
thing came  to  rive  the  Labour  forces  as  the  lightning 
rives  the  oak. 


XII 

THE    AGE    OF    NERVES 

To  understand  the  position  of  Democracy  at  this  time 
in  Europe,  with  its  phenomena  at  the  time  of  the  Great 
Peril,  it  is  necessary  to  trace  the  story  of  the  society 
of  the  time — that  society  which  tended  more  and  more 
to  turn  upon  the  grindstone  of  the  labour  that  lay 
underneath  it. 

At  this  moment,  Europe  was  checkered  by  paradox 
— ^by  concentrated  riches  and  intensive,  inimitable 
poverty  cheek  by  jowl — the  palace  of  the  millionaire 
overlooking  the  slum  of  the  sweated.  It  was  upon  this 
contrast,  and  especially  in  Britain,  that  Creegan  and 
the  other  Syndicalist  leaders  fed,  declaring  that  politics 
and  politicians  had  failed  to  change  anything,  and  that 
the  incursion  of  Labour  into  Parliament  had  been 
unable  to  effect  anything,  a  declaration  that  was  being 
made  by  their  fellow-Syndicalists  in  the  Latin  coun- 
tries. 

It  was  an  age  of  paradox — in  which  the  newspapers 
of  the  day  were  a  strange  compound  of  autocracy  and 
democracy — in  which  schemes  for  Social  Reform  took 
shape  in  the  midst  of  enormous  power-concentration 
in  the  hands  of  the  few,  and  in  which,  above  a  steady 
undertow  of  reaction,  there  flowed  in  all  countries  new 
tides  of  democracy.  Side  by  side  with  gargantuan  in- 
tellectual achievement  and  the  conquest  of  matter  by 

187 


188  DEMOCRACY 

man,  there  stood  unparalleled  degradation  of  mind 
and  body.  Fifty  millions  of  organised  democracy  in 
Europe  were  ranging  themselves  in  face  of  the  inchoate 
and  non-resisting  armies  of  the  submerged  and  unor- 
ganised, led  hither  and  thither  by  the  captains  of  in- 
dustry as  a  counter  to  the  skilled  organised  workers, 
upon  whom  however  they  were  forced  to  depend  for 
their  chief  labour-power. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  wars  and  rumours  of  wars, 
peace  movements  had  never  been  so  numerous  and  so 
widespread.  The  Church,  in  the  trappings  of  democ- 
racy, to  which  it  made  frantic  but  unheeded  appeal, 
was  engaged  in  a  life-and-death  conflict  v/ith  Science 
and  with  Socialism.  Paradox  was  everywhere.  The 
White  Race  was  in  the  melting-pot. 

At  this  moment,  it  was  Europe's  boast  that  in  the 
domain  of  intellect  she  was  supreme.  Written  broadly 
across  her  newspapers  and  her  books  was  the  Pride  of 
Brain,  of  intellectual  achievement,  at  the  moment  when 
millions  of  her  peoples  were  uneducated  and  unthink- 
ing. In  the  world  of  science  she  pointed  proudly  to 
the  analysis  of  the  atom  or  the  hunting  down  of  the 
bacillus — in  the  face  of  a  world  where  disease  was 
king.  In  the  laboratory,  the  scientist  pursued  with 
blind  passion  the  atom  of  matter  as  he  pursued  the 
disease  germ.  In  an  eternal  analysis  of  the  material 
he  saw  the  salvation  of  the  race  and  in  that  analysis 
won  the  plaudits  of  mankind.  In  the  world  of  industry 
she  boasted  the  piling  up  of  machine  on  machine 
served  by  the  sweating  millions  whom  the  machine  had 
mastered,  for  the  European  Frankenstein  had  called 
into  being  the  Machine,  which  it  could  neither  control 
nor  stop.    The  Machine  had  mastered  the  Man. 

In  the  world  of  literature,  her  writers  pointed  with 


THE  AGE  OF  NERVES  189 

pride  to  imaginative  deserts  from  which  the  Idea  of 
God  had  been  banished,  and  through  the  thunders 
from  the  pulpits  of  the  priests  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
there  came  the  trial  crash  of  ingenious  and  powerful 
instruments  of  slaughter,  upon  which  she  spent  more 
than  half  the  total  of  her  expenditure  upon  all  the 
other  things  of  life,  goading  her  democracies  into 
guttural,  sullen  discontent. 

The  Europe  of  the  day — the  Europe  of  paradox — 
was  a  Europe  in  which  the  triumph  of  matter  was 
complete. 

The  triumph  of  man  over  matter  had  become  the 
triumph  of  matter  over  man — the  triumph  of  death 
over  life. 

The  reverse  of  this  triumph  of  intellect  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  the  ideal  was  found  in  the  story  of  a  Europe 
which  had  rapidly  become  a  Europe  of  insanity  and 
nervous  decadence.  It  was  as  though  a  stage  had  been 
reached  in  the  cold  development  of  intellect  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  the  spiritual,  when,  with  the  decay  of  the 
intuitive  faculties,  nerve-madness  had  supervened.  It 
was  as  though  the  intellectual  process,  unvitalised  by 
the  spiritual,  ceasing  to  be  a  bridge  from  the  instinct 
of  the  lower  animals  to  the  intuition  of  man,  had 
blinded  itself  in  a  cut  de  sac  of  matter,  something  espe- 
cially true  of  the  Teuton. 

Even  the  democratic  movements  of  the  times  found 
their  chief  expression  in  material  terms,  not  only  in 
theory  as  in  what  was  called  "the  materialist  concep- 
tion of  history,"  but  in  objective — the  goal  of  democ- 
racy, nominally  at  least,  being  a  food  goal  and  its  pol- 
itics bread  and  butter  politics,  hiding  the  real  spirit  of 
democracy,  which  was  something  quite  other. 

The  leading  specialists  of  Europe  stood  in  appalled 


190  DEMOCRACY 

curiosity  at  the  waves  of  insanity  which  swept  over 
her  face.  In  Great  Britain  alone  the  ratio  of  the  known 
insane  had  doubled  itself  within  the  hand-span  of  fifty 
years.  Every  European  country  showed  this  mounting 
Tower  of  Babel. 

But  outside  the  known  insane,  there  stood  in  gibber- 
ing horror  an  ever-increasing  mass  of  the  imbecile  and 
half-witted.  Whole  communities  and  all  classes  were 
impregnated  with  the  seeds  of  madness — with  that 
half-madness  which  eluded  the  madhouse  because  it 
was  "harmless."  The  cities  of  the  continent  had  be- 
come forcing  houses  for  madness,  something  which 
crystallised  itself  in  the  saying  of  an  international 
authority — "It  is  difficult  to  say  who  is  mad  and  who 
not." 

And  the  thing  that  stood  behind  this,  the  great 
breeder  of  madness,  was  the  frenzied  competition  of 
the  day.  Europe  had  found  her  god  in  the  god  of 
Competition — a  Janus-god  with  faces  of  "liberty  of 
the  subject"  and  "individualism."  The  age  was  one 
of  nerve-racking  competition;  a  lustful,  passionless 
competition  for  gold  and  power,  with  "speeding-up" 
as  its  stimulant.  In  the  ever-rising  tide  of  democracy, 
the  struggle  was  for  power — power — power,  for  even 
the  democracies  had  learned  their  lesson  from  their 
Masters — perhaps  too  well.  They  were  nervous,  or 
"jumpy"  as  it  was  called  in  the  new  labour-jargon 
which  was  developing. 

Looking  over  the  industrial  fields  of  the  Europe  of 
that  day,  one  saw  only  the  turning,  twisting,  thrusting 
of  wheels  and  cranks — heard  only  the  thunder  of  those 
giant  machines  which,  nearly  automatic  themselves, 
developing  their  own  brain,  had  turned  the  workers 
who  waited  on  them  into  automata.    For  in  that  age. 


THE  AGE  OF  NERVES  191 

as  has  been  said,  the  Machine  had  conquered  the  Man 
who  created  it. 

One  saw  men,  women,  and  children  toiling  hope- 
lessly, helplessly,  caught  in  the  cogs  of  this  competition 
where  all  things  were  crushed  and  torn  in  the  battle  for 
the  markets.  The  working-classes  of  Europe,  not 
only  in  the  increasing,  breeding,  fermenting  slums  of 
the  great  cities,  but  in  the  hovels  of  the  countryside, 
were  living  in  a  foetid  squalor  which  had  ceased  to 
impress.  One  saw  the  clash  of  Labour  and  Capital — 
the  era  of  great  strikes  and  great  combines — the  tear- 
ing, whirling,  grinding  of  millstone  against  millstone, 
and  between,  the  tender  bodies  of  the  women  and 
children. 

The  leading  sociologists  of  the  time,  where  unfet- 
tered, declared  after  exhaustive  analysis  that  despite 
the  boast  of  European  civilisation,  the  standard  of  her 
common  life  had  declined  and  was  declining — that 
democracy  was  inexorably  falling  backwards  into  the 
abyss  from  which  through  the  ages  it  had  with  such 
effort  emerged.  In  the  schools  of  Europe,  more  than 
half  of  the  children  of  the  people  were  found  to  be 
physically  or  mentally  defective,  bred  from  mal- 
nutrition and  from  two  other  far-reaching  and  still 
only  half -suspected  causes. 

For  the  thing  that  stood  behind  all  this  nerve- 
madness  and  physical  decadence — the  great  breeder 
of  decadence,  was  Vice,  the  inevitable  reaction  from 
the  madness  of  competition,  in  which  forgetfulness 
and  counter-irritant  were  sought.  In  Europe  at  that 
time  "the  vice  of  sex"  dragged  itself  across  every- 
thing— across  the  pavements  of  her  streets — across  the 
pages  of  her  literature — ^across  the  whole  of  her  social 
life.    It  was  found  in  the  music-hall  as  in  the  "picture 


192  DEMOCRACY 

palace" — ^the  haunts  of  the  over-driven  democracy  of 
that  time — its  results  in  the  hospital  as  in  the  asylum. 
A  Vice  Commission,  called  into  being  in  momentary 
terror  of  the  thing,  had  declared  that  at  one  period  or 
another  of  their  lives  the  great  mass  of  European  males 
in  the  cities  at  least  suffered  from  sexual  disease.  It 
was  read,  wondered  at,  and  forgotten. 

In  the  most  fundamental,  the  most  delicate,  of  all 
realms — the  realm  of  sex,  romance  had  been  thrust  out 
for  sensuality  and  the  intercourse  of  the  spirit  for  the 
intercourse  of  the  flesh.    Matter  was  supreme. 

With  the  sexual  vice  was  enmeshed  the  places  of  the 
lower  deeps — the  place  of  the  opium  den  and  the 
chloral  fiend,  or  the  nameless  wastes  of  the  unnatural, 
though  these  places  as  yet  had  been  reserved  for  the 
Masters  rather  than  for  the  Masses.  In  every  consult- 
ing room  of  her  cities,  in  their  medical  literature,  was 
to  be  found  the  story  of  the  drug  fiend.  The  victim  of 
competition  found  in  drugs  the  momentary  forget  ful- 
ness he  craved. 

And  moving  around  and  through  all  this  was  the 
bath  of  alcohol  in  which  the  European  democracies, 
like  their  masters,  steeped  themselves.  From  the  man 
of  social  position  to  the  worker  in  the  factory,  alcohol 
was  regarded  as  the  great  stimulant  to  work  or  genius 
— the  sedative  of  nerve — the  killer  of  worry.  True 
that  democracy  rising  to  power  had  begun  to  realise 
the  necessity  of  clearheadedness  for  the  work  before 
it  and  through  its  temperance  movements  was  seeking 
to  stem  the  alcoholic  flood.  But  despite  that,  Europe's 
gaols,  hospitals,  and  lunatic  asylums  were  filled  to  the 
doors  with  the  subjects  of  King  Alcohol.  Alcohol 
was  king — the  Mad  King.  For  the  nerves  of  over- 
driven Europe  had  to  be  satiated. 


THE  AGE  OF  NERVES  193 

But  out  of  the  universal  decay  were  springing  the 
flowers  of  the  new  democracy.  It  was  thus  that  life 
came  out  of  death — in  classes  as  in  nations ;  in  nations 
as  in  races ;  in  races  as  in  worlds.  It  was  the  Spring- 
Song  of  the  Eternal,  finding  its  expression  in  the 
rising  of  the  sap  of  democracy,  rising  through  the  tree 
of  life. 

Throughout  Europe  there  were  springing  up  in  little 
local  communities  men  and  women  who,  sometimes 
almost  inaudible,  sometimes  unconscious  of  the  part 
they  were  playing  in  the  rising  of  democracy,  were 
making  their  protest  in  their  day  against  the  material- 
ism of  the  time.  Unknown  these — the  pioneers  of  the 
future — they  did  their  work,  and  when  they  had  done 
it,  passed  into  oblivion.  Unheralded  they  came — ^un- 
honoured  and  unsung  they  laid  down  their  earth-work 
and  passed  onwards. 

Passing  from  these  local  communities,  one  found  in 
the  wider  field  of  the  city  or  county  or  province  other 
and  stronger  spirits,  coordinating  the  work  of  those 
others,  who,  giving  it  new  inspiration,  sent  it  forward 
to  a  greater  stage,  where  it  was  taken  up  by  men  and 
women  who  were  national  figures,  who  in  their  turn 
cooperated  with  men  and  women  of  their  kind  across 
the  frontiers  of  the  nations,  developing  what  was 
shaping  itself  into  an  international  protest  of  Democ- 
racy against  materialism  throughout  the  White  Conti- 
nent. Now  these  movements  were  passing  from  the 
White  even  to  the  Brown  and  Yellow  Continents. 

What  was  especially  noticeable  at  this  time  was  that 
despite  the  materialist  form  of  the  democratic  prop- 
aganda, there  was  a  steady  tendency,  and  particularly 
in  Great  Britain,  for  the  movements  of  Democracy  to 
take  a  religious  basis.    Democracy  was  fast  becoming 


194  DEMOCRACY 

a  new  world-religion,  with  a  central  principle  taking 
the  place  of  those  other  religions  with  a  concrete,  an- 
thropomorphic God,  which  it  was  displacing,  whilst 
absorbing  in  its  heart  the  foundation  of  all  those  other 
religions,  divorced  from  dogma. 

It  was  to  be  noticed  that  the  main  pivots  upon  which 
all  these  multitudinous  movements  were  turning  were 
two— one  the  Religious,  the  other  the  Social;  which 
under  the  hammer  blows  of  democracy,  in  their  turn 
were  shown  to  be  but  two  aspects  of  the  one  central 
axis. 

The  European,  with  his  passion  for  anarchy  in 
thought,  had  effectually  pigeon-holed  his  various 
activities.  He  had  divorced  Religion  from  Science — 
Conduct  from  Business — and,  in  particular.  Ethics 
from  Politics.  It  was  this  last  which  had  aroused  a 
blind  protest  from  Democracy,  which,  in  the  spiral  of 
time,  under  the  new  impulse,  was  swinging  round  to 
the  synthetic.  It  was  the  Age  of  Synthesis — the  age 
of  the  Breaking  Down  of  Barriers — ^physical,  mental, 
spiritual. 

The  turning  movement  which  had  begun  had  a 
curious  fascination — it  was  the  movement  of  the  birth 
of  a  new  world  from  the  womb  of  time — a  movement 
in  which  Democracy  was  the  midwife  of  the  new 
Society. 

And  it  was  especially  in  the  guise  of  Social  Reform 
— the  war-cry  of  the  new  politics— that  the  new  society 
was  showing  itself.  In  the  communities,  the  democ- 
racy was  developing  a  passion  for  social  reform,  was 
shedding  the  old  individualism  as  a  worn-out  garment, 
and  was  taking  in  its  place  the  garment  of  cooperation, 
finding  in  it  the  hew  individualism — ^an  individualism 


THE  AGE  OF  NERVES  195 

which  developed  self  by  selflessness  and  found  its  king- 
ship in  service. 

The  town  councillor,  whether  Latin,  Teuton,  or 
Anglo-Saxon,  was  finding  a  new  meaning  to  such 
commonplace  things  as  lighting,  paving,  and  sanita- 
tion. The  material  was  seen  to  be  the  matrix  of  the 
spirit.  He  was  beginning  to  recognise  that  the  slum 
produces  the  slum  mind,  and  that,  to  use  one  of  the 
commonest  sayings  of  the  time,  "the  body  was  the 
temple  of  the  soul."  In  such  sayings  the  path  of  the 
new  democracy  had  its  milestones. 

In  every  political  party  in  Europe,  questions  of 
party-policy  and  party-advantage  were  giving  way  to 
questions  of  Social  Reform,  which  was  becoming  the 
goal,  real  or  affected,  of  all  parties. 

And  through  all  these  bread  and  butter  politics  there 
came  again  and  again  the  cry  of  the  new  democracy — 
the  cry  for  brotherhood,  for  understanding.  "We  are 
sick  of  national  and  international  jealousies — throw 
down  the  barriers!  Let  us  not  work  for  ourselves 
alone,  but  for  mankind — throw  down  the  barriers!" 
Vague  yesterday,  the  cry  was  taking  form  out  of  the 
European  void;  was  formulating  its  demands  with 
clearness  and  decision;  was  becoming  the  fury  at  the 
feast  of  materialism.  It  would  not  be  stifled.  It  was 
the  voice  of  the  new  synthesis. 

Wherever  this  voice  made  itself  heard,  the  masters 
of  mankind  cowered  before  it.  They  fed  it  with 
honeyed  words — they  stopped  their  ears — ^but  still  the 
terrible  call  came  to  them,  beating  through  the  closed 
doors  of  conscience.  It  was  the  voice  of  Democracy, 
but  it  was  also  the  voice  of  Religion — the  new  religion 
— the  Religion  of  International  Democracy. 


XIII 


THE    BIG    DRUM 


It  looked  as  though  Democracy  had  entered  upon  its 
last  triumphant  march  to  power.  It  was  stretching 
its  tentacles  over  the  face  of  the  world.  Its  combina- 
tions had  spread  from  city  to  province,  from  province 
to  nation,  and  now  were  becoming  International. 
Already  in  Great  Britain,  the  transport  workers,  in- 
cluding the  dockers  and  railwaymen,  with  the  miners, 
were  federated  for  combined  action  against  the  mas- 
ters. Trouble  with  one  Union,  nay  with  one  man, 
meant  trouble  with  two  millions  of  men  and  the  paral- 
ysis of  society.  "All  for  each — ^and  each  for  all  !'*  was 
the  slogan  of  the  new  trades  unionism. 

Creegan  and  Destin  were  jubilant.  In  these  new 
combinations  they  saw  the  coming  of  Syndicalism — 
felt  the  certainty  of  future  victory.  Yet  these  com- 
binations so  far  showed  no  signs  of  throwing  political 
action  overboard.  After  the  strikes  of  the  previous 
years  there  had  come  the  reaction,  and  already  the 
men  were  being  rounded  up  into  the  sheepfolds  of 
politics.  Yet,  despite  this  labour  paradox,  there  could 
be  no  question  that  democracy  was  getting  more  im- 
patient year  by  year.  The  postal  workers  had  threat- 
ened a  national  strike  and  had  not  hesitated  to  pit 
themselves  against  the  Government.  These  educated 
proletarians  had  now  banded  themselves  together  into 
a  Postal  Federation  of  six  unions,  whilst  a  still  bigger 

196 


THE  BIG  DRUM  197 

combination  was  taking  form  in  the  Civil  Service, 
which  had  now  thirteen  Unions  federated  including 
the  Postal  Federation  itself. 

The  men  were  really  driving  their  leaders  before 
them.  The  snobbishness  of  the  caste  unionism,  which 
in  the  past  had  cut  off  the  aristocracy  of  the  highly 
skilled  trades  from  their  fellows,  was  ceasing  to  exist. 

And  now  the  Transport  Workers,  the  Postmen,  and 
the  Miners  had  passed  national  bounds  and  were  linked 
up  into  International  organisations  which  had  their 
headquarters  in  two  of  the  chief  continental  cities. 

It  was  the  logical  sequence  of  democracy's  awaken- 
ing. All  barriers,  national  and  otherwise,  were  being 
swept  aside. 

Capital,  frightened,  was  organising  itself  apace. 
Combination  called  combination  into  being  automati- 
cally. In  Great  Britain  there  were  at  this  time  over  one 
thousand  men's  Unions,  but  as  Destin  had  discovered 
in  an  analysis  he  had  taken  out,  there  were  almost 
exactly  the  same  number  of  employers'  Unions.  In 
answer  to  the  war-chests  of  new  and  combined  de- 
mocracy, an  Employers'  Defence  Union  had  been 
formed,  which  was  raising  a  fifty  million  pound  war- 
chest  to  fight  the  men ;  like  them,  having  for  its  motto 
— "All  for  each — and  each  for  all."  In  this  combine 
nearly  four  thousand  firms  were  linked  up  for  common 
action.  It  was  even  seeking  to  steer  the  ship  of  state 
itself,  for  one  of  the  first  demands  in  its  constitution 
was  that  it  should  be  consulted  by  Parliament  before 
any  fresh  Trade  Union  legislation  was  undertaken. 

Now  the  International  combinations  of  the  Men 
were  being  met  by  International  combinations  of  the 
Masters,  for  all  International  jealousies  of  competition 
were  going  down  in  the  welter  of  the  Big  Idea.    The 


198  DEMOCRACY 

Shipping  Trust  had  linked  together  the  shipowners  of 
Great  Britain,  Germany,  France,  Austro-Hungary, 
Russia,  and  Holland,  and  were  negotiating  with  the 
owners  of  the  United  States.  In  their  hands  they  held 
the  shipping  of  Europe  and  the  lives  of  five  millions 
of  human  beings  directly  or  indirectly.  Already, 
understandings,  shadowy  at  the  moment,  were  materi- 
alising between  the  Governments  of  Europe  for  deal- 
ing with  the  rising  of  the  red  tide.  There  were  now 
two  Internationals — the  Red  and.  the  Yellow — ^the  Men 
and  the  Masters. 

Yet  despite  all  the  master-combinations,  it  seemed^  as 
though  each  blow  of  the  hammers  of  capitalism  welded 
democracy  still  more  strongly  together.  Over  a  million 
men  in  Britain  had  been  stampeded  into  the  Unions 
in  one  year  under  the  threat  of  the  new  combines. 
Every  combine  of  the  Masters  called  forth  a  fresh 
combine  of  the  Men.  In  Germany  as  in  Great  Britain 
and  the  other  countries,  democracy  still  climbed  stead- 
ily to  political  power,  holding  over  the  head  of  society 
the  sword  of  the  General  Strike.  Democracy  seemed 
unstoppable. 

Then  there  came  the  little  cloud. 

It  was  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand.  Europe 
had  held  herself  in  strained  silence  for  half  a  century, 
save  for  the  rumblings  of  the  little  volcanic  middle 
states.  The  deadly  order  of  war  ranged  itself  along 
the  frontiers  of  the  States  of  Christendom — ^behind  it, 
the  furnaces  of  Moloch  glaring  the  night  skies,  whilst 
Princes  in  Shining  Armour,  persuaded  of  their  mission 
of  divinity,  stalked  silently  in  the  noonday,  rattling 
the  sword  inconsequently  in  the  scabbard  to  prove  to 
Europe  and  themselves  their  preparedness.  Behind 
them,  the  mass  of  the  democracies  had  learned  to  for- 


THE  BIG  DRUM  199 

get — had  developed,  often  in  blind  unconsciousness, 
the  spirit  not  so  much  of  anti-nationalism  as  that  of 
Internationalism. 

In  vain  had  the  apostles  of  nationalism  appealed  to 
the  feeling  of  race.  The  links  of  the  chain  of  Democ- 
racy had  been  and -were  being  forged,  linking  country 
with  country.  The  White  labour  organisations,  tend- 
ing nationally  to  more  intimate  cohesion,  had  passed 
as  inevitably  as  the  formation  .of  a  crystal  to  Interna- 
tional understandings.  "The  Big  Idea"  was  in  the  air. 
Even  the  scarce-breathing  democracy  of  the  Yellow 
and  Brown  men  was  reaching  out  its  browned  hands  to 
the  White  democracy  for  deliverance  from  the  womb 
of  the  travailing  East. 

In  vain  had  the  captains  of  industry  and  war 
appealed  forcefully,  often  genuinely,  to  "patriotism," 
"religion,"  and  "Imperialism."  Stupefied  but  uncon- 
vinced, the  world-democracies  watched  in  dumb  sur- 
prise and  indifference  the  empires  in  the  making  of 
which  they  had  no  part  but  which  seemed  to  have 
grown  as  unconsciously  as  the  giant  fungus  of  a  night. 
The  average  Briton  could  not  have  replied  to  the  sim- 
plest questions  as  to  the  geography  and  ethnography 
of  the  British  Empire.  The  material  German,  despite 
a  more  conscious,  perhaps  more  theatrical,  pride,  was 
still  more  concerned  with  questions  of  daily  bread  and 
internal  administration  than  with  Togoland  or  the 
malaria-infested  regions  of  the  Germany  overseas. 
Teutonic  dreams  of  a  great  South  American  Empire 
left  him  cold.  Beer  and  bread  he  asked,  or,  as  it  was 
coming  to  be  known  under  the  rising  poesy  of  democ- 
racy— "Bread  and  Roses." 

Democracy  in  the  Latin  countries  had  been  drifting 
to  anarchism — to  direct  action — and,   above  all,   to 


200  DEMOCRACY 

anti-militarism.  It  was  the  passion  of  the  southern 
races,  impatient  of  restraint,  of  the  slowness  of  polit- 
ical advance.  For  the  previous  decade,  the  Confedera- 
tion General  du  Travail  in  France,  like  its  counterparts 
in  Italy,  had  been  challenging  force  with  force,  tramp- 
ling militarism,  and  with  it,  nationalism,  in  the  dust, 
and  saw  in  the  red  culotte  of  the  soldier  of  the  Republic 
the  badge  of  licensed  butchery. 

At  the  antipodes,  on  the  limits  of  Empire,  the  de- 
mocracy of  the  Englishman  had  forgotten  its  Imperial- 
ism in  the  economic  battle  and  had  climbed  triumphant- 
ly to  power.  New  Zealand,  fresh  from  a  quarter  of  a 
century  of  democratic  womanhood,  turned  a  deaf  ear 
to  the  Scarlet  Piper. 

In  the  other  corner  of  Empire,  Dutchmen  and  Eng- 
lishmen were  breaking  down  the  barriers  of  race-hatred 
in  a  common  effort  against  a  common  enemy.  The 
South  African  continent  had  been  torn  by  the  labour 
war  in  which  the  Big  Stick  had  been  used  unsparingly 
by  the  joint  captains  of  English  and  Dutch  capitalism, 
who,  in  the  furnace  of  the  labour  struggle,  had  melted 
the  hates  of  yesterday. 

In  the  New  World  as  in  the  Old,  changes  both  in 
policies  and  principles  had  been  taking  place.  The 
American  Federation  of  Labour,  prime  antagonist  of 
independent  labour  representation,  had  been  gradually 
yielding  to  the  newer  voice — to  the  voice  of  labour 
militant.  Its  chief,  the  Hebrew  who  led  his  millions 
as  his  prototype  led  the  Children  of  Israel  through  the 
deserts  of  the  past,  was  being  challenged  by  younger 
and  stronger  men.  The  spirit  of  patriotism  appealed 
to  in  the  North. American  Continent  by  Big  Business 
failed  to  resurrect  itself  in  the  minds  of  the  sons  of 
the  Republic    Neither  a  big  navy  nor  a  big  army  nor 


/'i  THE  BIG  DRUM  201 

the  appeal  of  the  Big  Stick  had  been  able  to  woo  or 
force  the  inheritance  of  the  White  Domination. 

The  White  Race  was  urgent  for  democracy.  The 
little  man  at  the  street  corner,  like  the  historian  of  the 
time,  spoke  with  the  Big  Idea  running  through  his 
speech.  The  Fleet  Street  penny-a-liner,  catching  the 
infection,  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ocean  and  wrote  of 
cataclysms  and  tidal  waves  and  revolution.  The  jour- 
nals of  a  conservative  yesterday  forgot  themselves  and 
spoke  vaguely  of  Social  Reform — of  "the  spirit  of  the 
time,**  and  the  need  for  new  democratic  programmes. 
In  the  same  issue  the  current  of  past  controversy  ran 
side  by  side  with  the  newer  current  of  democratic 
thought. 

The  age,  full  of  contradiction,  reflected  itself  in  the 
press — self-contradiction  became,  unnoticed,  the  com- 
monplace of  the  day. 

The  older  political  parties  were  being  metamor- 
phosed in  all  countries.  Brushed  forward  by  the  drive 
of  the  new  democracy,  the  Liberal  Parties  of  all  lands 
found  themselves  compelled  to  reach  out  to  sweeping 
reforms,  or  at  least  to  pretend  to  reach  out  to  them, 
even  sometimes  to  ally  themselves  incestuously  with  the 
Labour  Parties.  Their  historic  opponents  in  all  coun- 
tries showed  new  tendencies,  confused,  contradictory, 
now  inclined  to  fuse  with  the  more  conservative  of  the 
Liberals — ^now  tending  to  develop  new  and  democratic 
programmes  of  their  own. 

The  parliaments  of  the  world,  at  least  in  the  more 
democratic  countries,  were  fast  developing  into  auction 
marts  where  party  auctioneers  with  big  voices  and  en- 
raged imagination,  declaimed  to  the  public  the  merits 
of  the  goods  in  the  shop-window.  "Window-dressing" 
became  an  accepted  phrase  in  the  political  vernacular 


202  DEMOCRACY 

of  the  time  and  was  regarded  as  a  legitimate  perform- 
ance. 

And  behind,  Demos,  insatiable.  The  watchdogs  of 
democracy  having  tasted  power,  ever  demanded  more. 
"Sops  to  Cerberus"  became  the  engrossment  of  the 
politician,  who  now  began  to  find  that  no  longer  could 
Demos  be  satisfied  with  machine-changes  of  adminis- 
tration— dazzled  by  promises — ^but  clamoured  for  one 
thing,  and  only  one  thing.  Bread.  Now  he  was  even 
demanding  Roses,  asking  engarlandment  to  crown  his 
new-found  power-drunkenness.   .   .   . 

Away  in  the  spaces  of  middle  Europe  there  came  the 
tap  of  a  drum.  In  a  moment,  the  nerves  of  Europe 
had  tautened,  expectant.  The  drum-tap  echoed  across 
the  barriers  of  the  nations.  A  single  beat.  Then  a 
silence. 

Autocracy,  its  eyes  bloody,  sat  up,  waiting. 

Democracy,  self-satisfied,  set  itself  down  again  to 
peaceful,  capture  of  power  by  orderly  progress.  Com- 
placently, it  looked  upon  its  international  understand- 
ings— its  growing  voting  power — the  failure  of  its 
enemies  to  dam  back  the  red  flood.  But  again  there 
came  the  beat  of  the  drum — ^beaten  from  one  of  the 
little  peevish  middle  states — a  state  of  no  importance. 
But  this  time  the  drum-beat  came  sharper,  ever  sharper, 
in  the  staccato  of  anger. 

In  a  moment  the  armies  of  Europe  had  stiffened  to 
attention  before  the  blinded  eyes  of  the  Democracy. 
The  sun  set  redly  upon  the  gleam  of  bayonet 
Democracy  was  aroused. 

Under  the  iron  heel  of  Moloch  the  proletariats  ran 
hither  and  thither  in  the  ant-heap  of  Europe.  Meet- 
ings sprang  up  in  a  night — meetings  of  protest — 


THE  BIG  DRUM  203 

meetings  that  screamed  incoherently  whilst  the  sword 
rang  from  the  scabbard — that  could  scarce  be  heard 
over  the  rattle  of  the  drum  which  was  rising,  ever 
rising.  In  every  European  capital,  democracy,  protest- 
ing, inchoate,  murmured  in  generalities  against  the 
war-Moloch.  But  still  that  terrible  drum  beat  insist- 
ently on  its  ears,  stifling,  drowning. 

In  brute  indifference,  the  war  beast  clambered  out 
of  chaos.  The  captains  of  red  battle,  ready  from  a 
boot  strap  to  a  shell,  smiled  contemptuous  at  the  pro- 
test of  impotent  democracy,  which  without  war  policy, 
without  leadership,  found  itself  drowning  in  the  beat 
of  the  drum,  which  had  now  risen  into  a  litany  of  hell, 
through  which  the  priests  intoned  their  prayers  for 
victory  to  their  national  gods. 

And  through  it  all  the  crashing  of  national  boundary, 
the  breaking  of  treaty,  the  ruthless  crushing  of  a 
little  people,  came  to  the  ear  of  puzzled  democracy. 
The  armies  of  Europe  were  moving  on  the  fron- 
tiers. The  brassy  call  of  Moloch  went  forth  to  help- 
less democracy,  demanding  cannon  food.  And  still 
the  drums  of  war  raised  their  horrid  cadence,  pounding 
out  reason  and  thought. 

Then  the  Democracy,  blinded  with  anger  against  the 
Masters  of  War,  began  to  "see  red."  Confused  by 
the  beating  of  drum  and  the  blare  of  trumpet ;  blinded 
by  the  gleam  of  weapon ;  remembering  old  lessons  long 
since  forgotten,  the  traditions  of  ten  thousand  years 
rose  up  and  sent  the  blood  beating  headlong  through 
its  arteries. 

In  a  flash,  the  levelled  barriers  had  been  erected. 
Europe  was  a  series  of  closed  fastnesses  from  the  ram- 
parts of  which  the  flags  of  nationhood  reared  them- 
selves, as  the  red  flag  of  revolution  fluttered  down- 


204  DEMOCRACY 

wards.  The  International  was  being  pounded  to  frag- 
ments under  the  beating  of  the  big  drum. 

And  now,  the  beating  of  the  drum  was  mingled  with 
the  crack  of  rifle  and  the  dice-box  rattle  of  machine 
gun  on  the  frontiers  as  the  nations  grappled. 

The  .world  was  to  learn  its  lesson — the  lesson  that 
the  tie  of  the  country  was  the  closest,  most  indissolu- 
ble, of  all  ties— closer  than  that  of  parent  and  child — 
of  friend  and  friend— of  husband  and  wife.  Love  of 
country  was  greater  than  love  of  woman. 

The  thing  that  men  called  "patriotism" — something 
unrealised,  intangible,  yesterday,  became  to-day  the 
only  reality.  It  needed  the  Internationalism  of  the 
time  to  bring  it  out — the  red,  white  and  blue  of  the 
tricolour  and  of  the  Union  Jack  and  the  eagles  of  Slav 
and  Teuton  limning  themselves  against  the  scarlet  of 
the  International.  The  International  had  to  learn  its 
lesson  over  again. 

This  was  the  rising  of  that  other  red  tide,  lifting  as 
the  other  sank.  The  call  of  the  blood  was  more  in- 
sistent than  the  call  of  the  race.  It  was  against  civilisa- 
tion as  against  ethic.  It  flaunted  itself  in  the  face  of 
religion  as  in  the  face  of  the  intellect.  It  was  Intuition 
— the  intuition  of  the  Stone  Age— of  primitive  tribal 
man — that  intuition  which  passes  all  barriers,  reaching 
back  through  the  mists  of  the  years  to  the  fount  of  life 
itself — that  intuition  which  marked  the  first  differ- 
entiation, the  first  individualism,  of  the  race — some- 
thing as  impalpable  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  or  the  mists 
of  the  morning  and  as  powerful,  as  all-pervading. 

At  this  call,  the  husband  forgot  his  wife  and  child — 
the  priest  forgot  his  robes.  The  mother  forgot  her 
child — the  harlot  her  trade.  The  scholar  forgot  his 
philosophy — the  theologian  his  God. 


THE  BIG  DRUM  205 

The  dude  of  yesterday  became  the  warrior  of  to-day 
who  "scorned  delights  and  lived  laborious  days."  The 
pasty  clerk,  who  yesterday  trembled  at  his  master's 
voice,  stood  to-day  unmoved  where  the  high-explosive 
burst  in  the  red  mist  of  death.  The  man  of  millions 
flung  down  his  money  bags  and  sought  death  at  a 
crown  a  day.  The  epicure  who  yesterday  fumed  at  his 
caviare  and  Chablis,  to-day  munched  his  stinking 
"tommy"  with  joy.  Editors  threw  down  their  pens 
and  took  up  the  sword.  Dukes  donned  overalls  in  the 
workshops  of  the  nation  and  took  their  wages  meekly. 
Nations  found  their  souls  in  sacrifice. 
!  The  traditions  of  the  centuries  were  in  the  melting- 
pot  of  Moloch,  something  then  unsuspected,  and  only 
realised  when,  in  the  months  that  followed,  politicians 
wiped  out  competition  with  a  sweep  of  the  arm;  the 
Master  had  his  profits  limited  by  law;  and  the  State 
controlled  the  factory  with  its  master  and  its  man — 
body  and  soul  and  bench,  to  secure  national  efiiciency. 
It  was  only  in  the  long  afterward  that  the-man-in-the- 
street  sensed  dimly  the  new  world  created  by  the  genius 
of  war,  when  the  newspapers  called  for  the  institution 
of  Socialism — for  Democracy  in  being — a,  democracy 
in  which  duke  and  dustman,  king  and  coal-heaver  were 
but  units  in  the  national  machine;  demanding  a  roll- 
call  for  national  service — for  cooperation — the  roll- 
call  that  was  to  have  preceded  the  Cooperative  Com- 
monwealth of  the  Socialist  dream — ^now  to  usher  in  the 
Commonwealth  of  War. 

Democracy  destroyed  Democracy — ^national  democ- 
racy, international.  This  was  that  other  red  democracy 
—the  democracy  of  war.    It  was  the  final  paradox. 

In  vain  did  Creegan  and  Destin  now,  in  the  first  days 
of  war,  try  to  make  head  against  the  rising  storm.    In 


206  DEMOCRACY 

vain  did  they  and  their  fellows  raise  their  voices  above 
the  scream  of  the  maddened  crowds:  The  beating  of 
the  drum  drowned  them — and  left  them.  The  Syn- 
dicalists of  yesterday,  the  arch-militarists,  became  the 
frantic  nationalists  of  the  day.  Not  only  in  the  Latin 
but  in  the  Teutonic  and  Anglo-Saxon  countries,  their 
leaders  had  flung  themselves  into  the  firing  line,  yield- 
ing up  their  lives  with  a  smile  on  their  lips  and  hatred 
in  their  hearts.  In  a  week,  the  work  of  a  hundred 
years  had  gone  down. 

Creegan,  broken,  despairing,  sulking,  turned  his  back 
on  the  movement.  The  leaders  of  Democracy  who 
still  held  to  their  Internationalism  hung  their  heads 
and  felt  that  all  was  over.  The  Internationalists  of 
yesterday  who  had  declared  that  the  International  was 
greater  than  the  nation,  now  branded  the  dwindling 
minority  against  the  war  as  traitors,  and  like  Herodias 
of  old  demanded  their  heads  on  a  charger. 

The  barriers  of  class  as  of  caste  went  down  under 
the  drum-beat.  Liberal,  Conservative,  and  Socialist 
occupied  the  same  platform — their  presses  gave  the 
same  message,  urging  the  masses  of  workers  to  fight 
in  the  cause  of  culture  and  civilisation  against  their 
fellows,  who  in  other  countries  listened  eagerly  to  a 
like  appeal.  "Culture  and  Civilisation*'  became  the 
battle-cry  of  the  European  democracies  as  Internation- 
alism had  been  the  day  before. 

Destin,  for  the  moment  broken  under  the  stroke  of 
fortune,  after  the  first  rush  was  past,  lifted  his  head 
again.  The  brutal,  stubborn,  persistent  spirit  rose 
once  more  in  him  as  it  had  always  risen.  Defying  the 
authorities  and  the  people  of  the  time,  he  threw  him- 
self into  the  tiny  movement  which  was  trying  to  make 
headway  against  the  tide  of  war.    Now  hounded  at 


THE  BIG  DRUM  207 

the  street  corner,  now  threatened  with  prosecution, 
travelHng  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  coun- 
try, he  found  around  him  a  nucleus  of  pacifists  who 
refused  to  be  pacific. 

He  was  now  the  real  head  of  the  remnants  of  the 
Syndicalist  movement,  which  however  for  the  moment 
was  linking  itself  with  the  little  band  of  politicals 
and  even  of  Liberals  who  had  taken  up  the  anti-war 
attitude.  His  name,  known  fitfully  in  the  previous 
years,  again  loomed  on  the  posters  of  Fleet  Street — in 
irony — in  condemnation — in  frank  contempt.  He  was 
held  up  before  the  nation  as  Creegan  had  once  been 
held  up,  as  the  incarnation  of  helpless  democracy.  In 
the  same  column  was  laid  to  his  door  the  lives  now 
flying  out  on  the  frontier.  He  it  was  who  was  stopping 
the  quick  progress  of  the  war.  He  it  was  who  made  it 
impossible  for  England  to  be  victorious  over  her  ene- 
mies. He  became  the  Jesus  Christ  of  the  anti-militarist 
movement.  The  people  who  followed  him  were  cranks 
and  dreamers.  Even  democracy  itself  condemned 
them.  But  Destin,  over  all,  was  the  despised  of  the 
people.  He  had  no  power,  yet  he  was  accredited  with 
limitless  power.  Always  demanding  a  concrete  figure, 
the  Anglo-Saxon  mind  saw  in  him  the  head  and  front 
of  the  offending. 

Now  he  was  blasphemously  trying  to  make  anti- 
militarism  a  kind  of  religion.  He  was  preaching  that 
all  war  was  murder,  to  the  slogan  of  the  new  faith — 
"War  against  War!"  In  vain  was  it  thrown  at  him 
contemptuously  that  the  arch-apostle  of  French  anti- 
militarism  had  surrendered  to  patriotism  and  was  now 
in  the  firing  line — in  vain  were  the  anti-militarists  of 
the  Slav  races  shown  also  to  have  forgotten  an  aca- 
demic Internationalism  in  the  call  of  country  and  civil- 


208  DEMOCRACY 

isation.  Destin  held  his  way,  not  a  little  dismayed  and 
not  a  little  proud.    He  also  was  a  crucified  one. 

Yet  he  had  his  moments  of  depression  when  all 
seemed  useless. 

There  was  the  day  in  Hyde  Park  where,  despite 
police  regulation,  the  Syndicalists  had  called  a  war 
protest  meeting  and  where  droves  of  inflamed  young 
men  had  turned  up  "to  see  the  fun,"  where  Destin 
found  himself  facing  a  whitey  bobbing  mass  of  faces, 
all  agog  and  slavering  with  playful  cruelty.  He  looked 
so  impotent  there  in  the  heat  of  the  summer  afternoon 
that  even  the  constables,  whose  helmets  dotted  the 
crowd,  forebore  to  interfere. 

At  this  time  Destin  was  exhausted.  His  face,  whit- 
ened and  drawn,  showed  the  story  of  the  previous 
month.  His  nerves  were  fighting  mad.  Cool  enough 
generally,  he  had,  as  Wildish  put  it,  "gone  past  him- 
self." 

As  he  faced  the  mass  of  faces,  the  old  sureness  of 
Trafalgar  Square  was  gone,  and  in  its  place,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  there  was  fear  of  the  brute  before 
him,  mingled  with  a  sort  of  madness  to  throw  himself 
into  the  jaws  of  the  animal  and  have  it  over.  Hitherto 
he  had  always  controlled  the  mob — ^now  for  the  first 
time  like  a  wild  beast  tamer  who  has  lost  his  nerve,  he 
felt  that  it  was  beginning  to  control  him. 

Wildish  was  to  be  the  other  speaker,  but  at  the  hour 
of  the  meeting,  Wildish  had  not  come,  and  as  he  knew, 
Wildish  with  his  fearlessness  and  humour  was  the  one 
man  in  England  who  could  finish  a  difficult  dangerous 
meeting  of  this  kind  satisfactorily.  That  meant  at 
least  half  an  hour's  holding  of  the  brute  at  bay,  for  he 
well  knew  he  could  not  depend  upon  police  protection. 
His  meeting  was  lawless.    He  was  outside  the  law. 


THE  BIG  DRUM  209 

As  the  time  went  on,  and  the  clamour  around  him 
rose  under  the  heat  of  the  sun,  his  eye  vainly  searched 
the  gates  of  the  Marble  Arch  for  his  colleague.  His 
thoughts  began  to  wander.  In  a  moment  the  crowd 
before  him  had  sensed  his  impotence,  and  the  ironical 
cheers  had  turned  into  jeers  with  an  undertone  of 
something  else.  Destin  smiled  down  at  them,  but  it 
was  no  longer  his  old  serene  smile,  but  a  flurried,  har- 
ried contortion. 

Then,  as  the  growl  of  the  crowd  had  risen  to  a  snarl, 
he  caught  sight  of  Wildish,  who  was  forcing  his  way 
through  the  crowd  at  the  side  of  the  platform.  The 
crowd  at  that  moment  began  to  sway — ^to  sway  in  the 
sickly  movement  he  knew  so  well — the  sway  before  the 
rush.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  held  himself  up 
to  a  supreme  effort,  determining  to  finish  the  meeting 
then  and  there.  Already  he  had  checked  the  move- 
ment beneath  him,  when  he  felt  himself  dragged  back- 
wards. There  was  a  scream  in  his  ears  and  a  dense 
mass  of  bodies,  soft  and  steamy,  with  hoofs  hard  and 
crushing,  passed  over  him. 

He  struggled  for  a  moment  and  then  was  conscious 
of  an  opening  in  the  crowd  whilst  a  space  gradually 
cleared  itself  about  him.  It  was  in  this  moment, 
struggling  to  hold  his  senses,  that  he  was  dragged  to 
his  feet  and  heard  coming  from  above  him  a  clear 
strong  voice. 

Standing  on  the  platform,  her  head  bared,  stood  the 
Green-eyed  Girl,  her  eyes  flashing  surely  upon  the 
crowd  beneath,  which  was  gathering  itself  for  another 
rush.  In  burning,  clear,  accents,  the  brogue  came 
strongly  to  him — "Is  it  men  that  ye  call  yourselves? 
Perhaps  you  would  try  and  rush  a  woman  ?  Perhaps 
you  would  like  to  push  me  off  the  platform  and  trample 


210  DEMOCRACY 

me  in  the  dust  of  the  earth.  You  dirty,  pitiful  cow- 
ards!" 

The  crowd  was  moving  uneasily. 

"Come  on,  you  cowards!"  came  the  voice  over  his 
head.  The  slender  boyish  figure  had  drawn  itself  up, 
the  little  hands  clenched  surely,  on  the  platform  edge 
until  the  knuckles  stood  out  whitely.  The  crowd  was 
silent.  It  was  moving,  but  this  time  away  from  the 
platform,  whilst  through  it  passed  the  levers  of  con- 
stables with  their  irresistible — "Move  on  there — ^move 
on  there." 

Somebody  took  him  outside  the  Marble  Arch  gates 
to  a  taxi-cab.  He  found  himself  sitting  opposite  the 
Green-eyed  Girl,  her  face  white  as  his  ovm.  The  taxi 
pulled  up  quickly.  In  a  dream  he  passed  into  his  room 
and  saw  himself  in  the  glass,  his  coat  flapping  down- 
wards where  it  had  been  torn,  a  thin  stream  of  blood 
hardening  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  He  sat  there 
stupidly,  alone. 

The  door  opened.  The  girl  came  into  the  room,  a 
little  drawn,  her  mouth  tightened,  but  the  eyes  shining 
green  and  quenchless  as  ever. 

He  did  not  think  of  offering  her  his  thanks,  though 
he  knew  it  was  she  who  had  taken  the  platform  at  the 
critical  moment,  holding  the  crowd  until  the  police 
could  get  to  work. 

"This  is  the  end,"  he  said,  smiling  sadly  at  her. 

"No,"  said  she,  "it  is  the  beginning,"  and  she  smiled 
back  at  him  inscrutably. 

His  bleeding  mouth  and  blackened  eyes  she  ignored 
as  something  that  was  part  of  the  struggle — inevitable 
and  not  to  be  talked  about. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"What  can  I  do  ?   What  can  any  of  us  do  ?    Creegan 


THE  BIG  DRUM  211 

is  sulking — we  are  without  a  head — without  beginning 
and  without  end.  I  don't  even  know  that  we  trust  our- 
selves. The  nationalists  have  been  too  strong  for  us. 
Even  the  Government  doesn't  bother  its  head  about  us 
— we  are  too  weak  and  contemptible,"  He  threw  out 
his  hands  despairingly. 

"So  that  is  how  you  take  it?"  she  said. 

He  looked  into  the  eyes  that  looked  at  his.  And  as 
he  looked  he  saw  humour,  contempt,  assuredness — ^all 
running  through  the  greens  and  yellows — for  two  tiny 
spots  of  yellow  had  come  into  them. 

"What!"  he  said.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
haven't  given  up  hope?" 

"Given  up  hope?  What  do  you  mean?  I  never  had 
any.  You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  the  first  day 
we  met — The  democracy  is  mad,  and  good  and  bad 
and  weak,  and  the  surest  thing  in  the  world  and  the 
most  uncertain.' " 

"What  do  you  think  now  ?" 

"I  think,  when  this  war  has  spent  itself,  and  the 
blood-spilling  has  cleared  the  brains  of  Demos,  there 
is  going  to  be  a  recoil.  I  think  the  swing  of  the  pendu- 
lum must  come,  and  that  there  will  be  men's  work  for 
men  and  women's  work  for  women.  At  least,  as  you 
know,  every  woman's  proletarian  organisation  in 
Europe  has  kept  its  head  and  declared  against  war. 
There  has  been  no  exception.  We  are  living  in  the  age 
of  woman,  and  woman  is  coming  to  her  own  after  the 
war." 

The  boyish  figure  was  leaning  forward,  with  a  tiny 
wrinkle  between  the  broad  clear  brows  and  the  high 
forehead. 

"But  that  time  is  not  yet,"  she  added. 

"Will  you  help  me?"  he  asked. 


212  DEMOCRACY 

"I  will  always  help  you  if  you  will  let  me/*  she 
said  simply. 

She  had  drawn  closer  to  him  and  looked  into  his 
eyes  strangely — fleetingly. 

He  looked  back  at  her  steadfastly.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  heard  the  echo  of  something  in  her  voice — 3. 
lesson  learned  long  since  and  forgotten.  It  was  the 
echo  of  bells  in  a  far-off  summer  evening — of  many 
things  half -remembered.  There  came  to  him  the  feel- 
ing that  all  this  had  happened  before,  somewhere,  long 
ago — ^as  though  he  had  passed  through  the  magic  door 
of  yesterday. 

But  in  that  moment  of  passing,  it  was  as  if  a  veil  had 
been  drawn  away  and  he  saw  that  the  girl  was  won- 
drous fair.  He  had  always  thought  of  her  as  an  "in- 
tellectual,** and  though  never  unfeminine,  still  some- 
thing hard  and  boyish.  Now  he  caught  the  soft  flush 
of  the  ivory  skin — the  eyes  and  mouth  that  had  soft- 
ened and  the  beauty  of  the  red-black  hair  that  framed 
the  face — the  face  of  a  woman  he  had  not  seen  before. 
Even  the  lines  of  the  figure  had  softened,  and  the 
gentle  rounded  bosoms  showed  themselves  faintly  un- 
der the  stuff  of  the  close  fitting  dress. 

The  woman  that  stood  before  him,  her  lips  parted, 
was  another  woman  to  the  woman  who  had  so  often 
angered  him  and  whom  he  had  distrusted  and  even 
hated. 

He  was  about  to  rise  to  his  feet,  curious  of  this  new 
revelation,  wondering  and  confused,  searching  the  face 
of  the  girl  before  him  for  the  thread  of  the  forgotten 
lesson,  when  there  was  a  movement  of  silk  and  some- 
thing had  thrown  itself  at  his  feet 

In  that  moment  the  thread  of  memory  was  broken. 


THE  BIG  DRUM  213 

It  was  Vesta  Craven  who,  finding  the  outer  door 
open,  had  entered  unannounced. 

"My  poor  Denis.  .  .  ."  The  voice  came  with  a 
thrill  underneath  it.  Destin  stared  at  the  fresh,  sweet 
figure — stupefied. 

"I  heard  all  about  it  in  the  Park.  I  came  to  the 
meeting  late  and  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  Mr.  Wildish  told  me, 
so  I  .hurried  here  straight  away.  Have  they  broken 
you  up  badly?" 

The  rounded  arms,  the  lace  sleeves  falling  back  to 
the  elbows,  were  resting  on  his  knees;  the  eyes,  intent, 
glancing  upwards  appealingly. 

Destin  was  confused,  for  he  knew  that  the  girl  had 
not  seen  the  Green-eyed  Girl  standing  there  in  the 
corner  behind  the  door,  a  queer  little  smile  on  her  lips 
— the  old,  mocking  smile  which  always  puzzled  and 
grated  on  him. 

"Oh  it's  nothing,"  he  grunted.  "There  is  .  .  .  er 
...  I  don't  think  you  have  met  before  .  .  ."  He 
stood  up  awkwardly  to  make  the  introduction. 

Miss  Craven  had  risen  to  her  feet  in  graceful  self- 
possession.  She  turned  around  and  met  the  face  of 
the  Green-eyed  Girl,  which  was  now  expressionless. 
The  little  mocking  smile  had  fled.  The  two  girls 
searched  each  other  out  like  two  fencers  about  to  en- 
gage. Miss  Craven  made  a  step  forward  with  a  half 
gesture  to  hold  out  her  hand,  corrected  herself,  and 
bowed  a  little  stiffly.  The  other  girl  might  or  might 
not  have  bowed. 

Destin  was  angry — angry  with  Vesta  Craven — ^he 
did  not  know  why,  but  especially  angry  with  the  Green- 
eyed  Girl,  who,  dash  it  all !  might  remember  her  man- 
ners. There  was  no  need  to  insult  Vesta,  who  at 
least  had  expressed  some  sympathy  with  him  in  his 


214  DEMOCRACY 

damaged  condition.  He  had  not  thought  of  it  be- 
fore. 

"You  will  let  me  get  some  water  and  bandages  .  .  . 
Denis?"  she  lingered  a  moment  on  the  name,  which 
she  spoke  like  a  challenge. 

Miss  Craven's  eye  was  a  little  hard — ^her  old  sure- 
ness  a  little  forced. 

Destin  was  about  to  refuse,  but  already  she  had  gone 
to  the  bell  and  called  the  landlady,  with  whom  she  dis- 
appeared, after  first  glancing  at  the  other  girl. 

"Dash  it  all!"  said  Destin  a  little  rudely— "you 
might  be  polite  to  her.  .  .  .  She  means  well,"  he  added 
half  apologetically,  as  he  caught  the  smile  in  the  other's 
face. 

"She  means  too  well,"  said  the  Green-eyed  Girl. 
"That  is  the  trouble." 

"Surely  you're  not  .  .  ."  he  was  going  to  say  "jeal- 
ous," but  the  word  sounded  too  brutal  and  intimate, 
so  he  changed  it  for  "angry" — "surely  you're  not 
angry  because  a  friend  acts  the  angel  of  mercy?" 

"It  is  because  she  acts  the  angel  of  mercy  that  I 
don't  care  about  her,"  said  the  girl  with  simple  direct- 
ness. It  was  that  occasional  baffling  directness  which 
so  often  non-plussed  and  angered  him. 

She  was  putting  on  her  hat. 

"You  know  my  trouble  is  that  I  am  not  sympathetic 
enough.  Miss  Craven  will  see  to  your  wounds — it  is 
her  mission  in  life." 

She  walked  out  of  the  room  after  nodding  coolly 
and  a  little  sadly  to  Destin,  who  by  now  was  very 
angry.  He  half  followed  her  to  the  door,  but  checked 
himself  as  it  closed  in  his  face. 

After  all,  she  could  go.  She  always  unsatisfied  him. 
Why  couldn't  she  be  a  little  feminine — ^he  was  going 


THE  BIG  DRUM  215 

to  say  "womanly,"  but  somehow  that  did  not  seem 
to  fit  her. 

Vesta  Craven  came  in,  her  sleeves  rolled  back,  the 
landlady's  apron  caught  behind  picturesquely.  She 
seemed  nervous  as  she  entered,  but  recovered  herself. 

As  she  made  him  take  off  his  torn  coat  and  collar 
in  frank  comradeship,  and  bathed  his  face  and  neck 
over  a  basin,  and  bound  up  a  rather  deep  wound  on 
his  head  after  washing  it,  Destin  felt  unbearably  angry 
— and  a  brute.  After  all,  the  girl  was  doing  what  she 
could.  Yet  the  touch  of  her  cool  fingers  repelled  him 
— once  they  thrilled  him. 

But  as  the  process  of  washing  and  bandaging  went 
on,  he  felt  the  old  thrill  come  back  again.  There  was 
that  fragrance  which  enveloped  him,  which  seemed  to 
come  from  her  body.  The  touch  of  the  slender  dex- 
terous fingers  was  cool  and  grateful. 

As  she  bent  down  close  to  his  head  to  examine  the 
knot  she  had  made,  in  a  fit  of  impulse  he  drew  the 
dainty,  proud  little  head  down  on  his  shoulder  and 
kissed  the  soft,  cool  cheek. 

"Did  you  mean  that  .  .  .  Denis?"  Vesta's  voice 
had  never  sounded  like  that  before. 

Something  passed  before  his  eyes — ^something  blind- 
ing but  intoxicating.    He  surrendered  himself  to  it. 

"Of  course  I  meant  it,"  he  said. 


XIV 

THE  DIVINE  RIGHT 

Things  were  happening  inside  the  Trade  Unions. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war,  unemployment  rose 
fraction  by  fraction.  The  unemployment  money 
poured  out.  Day  by  day  the  officials  saw  the  golden 
stream  go  without  any  return. 

War,  the  highwayman,  was  holding  a  pistol  to  the 
head  of  Demos  and  demanding  not  only  his  money  but 
his  life,  for  the  Trades  Unionists,  who  were  the  back- 
bone of  England's  new  armies,  were  being  shot  down 
like  pheasants  in  the  battues  of  the  frontier. 

Destin  drove  this  home  with  all  his  force.  This  was 
what  war  brought  the  democracy.  War  meant  the 
death  of  organised  labour.  Would  it  not  come  out  of 
its  nightmare  and  see  that  the  enemy  was  inside,  not 
outside,  its  gates?  Already,  the  man  despised  the  day 
before  was  beginning  to  be  heard,  when  there  was  a 
transformation. 

The  mounting  figures  of  unemployment  were  held. 
Then  they  began  to  decline,  until,  as  Destin  himself 
knew  from  the  statistics  of  thirteen  of  the  principal 
unions  of  the  country,  in  eleven  of  them  there  was 
scarcely  a  man  out  of  work.  It  was  only  the  "luxury 
trades"  which  were  hard  hit. 

The  thing  was  incomprehensible.  It  pricked  the 
balloon  of  Socialist  economics. 

As  he  began  to  look  into  the  causes,  it  burst  upon 
216 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  217 

him  that  with  the  volunteering  for  battle  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  workers  who  were  withdrawn  from 
the  labour  market,  more  work  was  left  for  those  be- 
hind. Then  the  war  contracts  began  to  pour  in. 
Powder,  steel,  food,  khaki — all  had  to  be  provided  for 
the  men  at  the  front,  and  the  wear  and  tear  of  war  had 
to  be  made  good.  Every  time  a  British  battleship  was 
sent  to  the  bottom,  it  meant  high  wages  in  the  uncon- 
scious ranks  of  the  Engineers  and  Shipbuilders,  for  it 
had  to  be  replaced,  and  replacement  meant  work.  The 
shipyards  were  working  day  and  night.  War  was 
proving,  as  the  militarists  had  always  said,  a  blessing, 
not  a  curse. 

In  vain  did  Destin  try  to  make  headway  with  his 
peace  propaganda.  He  was  laughed  to  scorn.  There 
were  the  facts — in  the  face  of  the  facts,  those  facts 
always  beloved  of  the  democracy,  he  was  powerless. 
Everybody  was  laughing  at  him — ^his  audiences — the 
police,  who  treated  him  with  tolerant  and  smiling 
good-nature. 

Democracy  was  even  being  officially  recognised 
through  war,  for  a  Coalition  Government  of  all  parties 
had  been  formed,  in  which  the  plums  of  office  had  been 
thrown  to  the  Labour  leaders.  The  truce  which  had 
been  concluded  between  Capital  and  Labour,  every  day 
grew  more  permanent.  The  Unions  had  now  volun- 
tarily abandoned  "the  right  to  strike,"  after  consulta- 
tion with  the  Government  chiefs,  who  had  taken 
Labour  into  their  confidence  in  a  series  of  joint  con- 
ferences. Some  of  the  labour  leaders  had  even  agreed 
to  a  sort  of  compulsory  labour  on  war  munitions,  en- 
forced by  a  semi-military  control,  and  were  now  dally- 
ing with  conscription. 

"God  Save  the  King"  had  been  sung  in  the  House 


218  DEMOCRACY 

of  Commons,  led  by  a  one-time  irreconcilable  labour 
leader,  and  as  the  casualties  continued  to  roll  up  from 
the  Continental  battlefields,  the  blood  spilled  flowed 
over  friend  and  foe  alike,  fusing  them  in  a  common 
baptism — the  baptism  of  blood.  Labour  leaders  gave 
their  sons  to  the  war,  and  with  each  sacrifice  in  a 
common  cause  eroded  the  landmarks  of  class.  Were 
they  not  fighting  for  democracy  itself  ? 

One  of  them,  a  prominent  pacifist  and  lay  preacher 
in*  the  temples  of  Nonconformity,  had  made  the  fa- 
mous "Graves  of  our  Forefathers"  speech,  in  which, 
the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks,  standing  as  he 
said,  upon  the  graves  of  his  fighting  ancestors,  he 
called  down  vengeance  upon  the  common  enemy,  and 
demanded  compulsory  military  service  and  the  ending 
of  the  class- war. 

The  thrash  of  the  drum  went  on.  The  war-storm 
had  not  yet  reached  its  full  height.  As  call  after  call 
was  made  by  the  war-captains  for  more  men,  demon- 
strations of  patriotism,  ever  more  intense,  arose.  It 
was  at  this  time  that  the  sign — "More  Men  Wanted !" 
appeared,  in  a  certain  street  of  infamy,  in  the  bedroom 
windows  of  those  nationless  women,  who,  like  their 
sisters,  found  themselves  swept  up  by  the  common 
flood  of  patriotism. 

But  the  appetite  of  the  War-Moloch  grew  as  it  fed. 
Things  that  had  once  been  men  were  now  coming  back 
to  fill  the  highways  and  bye  ways  of  England.  In  the 
grave  of  the  near  front,  arms  and  legs  protruded  from 
the  distended  earth,  flatulent  and  noisome.  But  still 
the  cry  came — "More  Men  Wanted!" 

Compulsory  Service  was  in  the  air.  Even  some  of 
the  labour  leaders,  the  anti-conscriptionists  of  yester- 
day, now  urged  conscription — though  they  side-stepped 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  219 

the  name.  At  last  the  measure  was  swept  through 
ParHament.  For  the  demand  was  still  for  "More 
Menr 

When  the  war-wave  had  topped  its  height,  breaking 
whitely  upwards  in  the  night  that  was  gathering  over 
Europe,  and  Destin  was  at  last  beginning  to  lose  all 
hope,  silenced  in  the  thunders  of  the  guns  and  of  the 
big  drum,  War,  the  dramatist,  loosed  his  curtain. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  the  lines  of  men  writhed 
serpent-like  in  a  death-grapple  on  the  frontiers,  and 
when  the  war  looked  like  continuing  indefinitely,  that 
something  snapped  away  back  there  in  the  welter.  At 
the  moment  when  the  struggle  seemed  interminable, 
and  the  exhausted  peoples  were  putting  forth  still 
greater  and  final  efforts,  gold,  not  steel,  decided  the 
war. 

Europe  was  hushed.  The  boom  of  the  last  gun  died 
away  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Continent,  echoing  over 
the  valleys  and  plains  where  a  whitened  hand  raised 
itself  despairing  from  its  half -dug  grave  as  though 
in  protest.  The  armies  of  Europe  sank  down  ex- 
hausted. 

Then  it  was  discovered  that  the  war  had  settled 
nothing.  It  had  bound  a  tyranny,  but  it  had  loosed  a 
brood  of  new  problems  to  be  fought  out  in  future 
wars.  The  peace  terms  were  signed.  A  paean  of 
praise  ascended  from  the  churches — drowning  the 
voiceless  chorus  of  the  widowed  and  fatherless. 

The  armies  of  men  poured  back  to  the  blare  of 
trumpet  and  waving  of  flag.  Then  they  looked  around 
them  and  went  into  the  labour  market  for  their  work. 

But  the  work  was  not  there. 

The  commercial  machine  had  stopped  under  the 
stresses  of  war.     In  vain  did  the  hungry  millions 


220  DEMOCRACY 

clamour  for  work  and  bread.  There  was  no  work  and 
no  bread.  The  Government,  already  warned  of  the 
danger,  put  into  operation  some  half-hearted  schemes 
of  relief.  But  still  the  chorus  came,  insistent — "We 
want  bread — we  want  work!" 

Dumb,  fearing,  the  heads  of  Government  held  them- 
selves silent  before  the  rising  appeal.  The  workless 
had  now  taken  fire.  The  waves  of  rebellion  had  lapped 
the  Trade  Unions  and  passed  over  them.  Millions 
were  out  of  work.    Millions  were  demanding  bread. 

It  was  the  chance  of  the  Syndicalists.  Creegan  came 
out  from  his  hibernation  under  the  warm  rays  of  the 
rising  sun  of  rebellion,  his  lethargy  gone,  aflame  and 
impatient. 

The  papers  as  a  whole  were  silent.  Not  so  the 
Meteor,  which  flamed  through  the  newspaper  firma- 
ment, astonishing  friend  and  foe  by  its  espousal  of  the 
cause  of  Labour,  and  picturesquely  demanding  justice 
for  "the  broken  in  our  wars,**  in  terms  as  unmeasured 
as  those  of  the  Syndicalists  themselves.  In  fact,  for 
the  moment,  there  was  a  kind  of  subtle  alliance  between 
Creegan*s  men  and  their  old  foe,  with  a  third  and  still 
more  curious  ally — ^the  Craft-Platonists. 

The  Craft-Platonist  Socialists,  something  like  first 
cousins  to  the  Syndicalists,  were  a  new  and  fashionable 
off -shoot  from  the  Craft  Socialists,  who  in  their  turn 
had  developed  from  the  Platonists — a  middle-class  and 
aristocratic  body  on  the  extreme  right  of  the  move- 
ment. It  was  the  sectarian  tendency  of  arm-chair 
Socialism  to  hair-splitting,  parallelling  the  splits  in  the 
religious  bodies. 

Nobody,  including  themselves,  seemed  to  know 
exactly  what  they  wanted,  though,  under  the  leader- 
ship of  Damascene,  they  seemed,  like  the  Craft-Social- 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT      .  221 

ists  from  whom  they  had  broken  away,  to  want  every- 
thing taken  over  by  the  craftsman,  as  in  the  Guild 
system  of  the  Middle  Ages — the  coal  mines  by  the  coal 
miners,  the  railways  by  the  railwaymen,  and  even  the 
studios  by  the  artists — all  in  some  way  as  yet  not  ex- 
plained, to  be  administered  for  the  benefit  of  the  gen- 
eral public.  Unlike  the  body  from  which  they  had 
split,  however,  the  one  thing  they  did  want  was  that 
the  transition  of  society  from  the  capitalist  to  the  guild 
system  should  find  its  passage  in  bloody  murder  and 
sudden  death,  a  consummation  which  they  set  out  with 
picturesque  violence. 

Most  of  their  adherents  they  drew  from  the  study 
and  the  studio — ^none  from  the  ranks  of  the  workers, 
for  whom  they  had  a  sublime  love,  which  was  returned 
with  a  sublime  contempt  .  .  .  when  the  workers  knew 
anything  about  them. 

The  Government  officials  professed  no  knowledge  of 
these  things  and  shut  their  eyes  and  ears  to  the  grow- 
ing thunder  in  the  streets — to  the  lightning  that  ran 
along  the  ground.  But  Creegan,  like  Destin,  felt  that 
all  this  agitation  needed  a  head  to  give  it  signifi- 
cance. 

Finally  Creegan  suggested  that  they  should  take  the 
Victoria  Hall,  the  one  hall  in  London  which  ever 
made  the  Government  listen,  and  which  held  over  ten 
thousand.  The  difficulty  was  that  the  proprietors 
would  sooner  cut  their  throats  than  lend  it  for  such  a 
purpose. 

Then  Destin  had  an  inspiration,  and  suggested  that 
they  should  call  in  the  Meteor.  So  once  more  he  found 
himself  in  the  whirl  of  the  wheels  in  Bethlehem  House, 
treading  the  familiar  corridor,  and  finding  himself  in 
the  presence  of  the  man  with  the  grey  eyes. 


222  DEMOCRACY 

As  he  unfolded  his  proposal  to  the  man  before  him, 
he  was  not  conscious  of  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash.  He 
would  have  thought  he  had  failed  did  he  not  know  the 
school  of  Bethlehem  House,  where  all  emotion,  save 
gargantuan,  was  forbidden.  "You  will  hear  from  us" 
was  the  editor's  only  reply. 

And  they  did  hear  from  them.  The  Meteor  took  the 
hall,  "for  a  political  meeting,"  without  specifying  par- 
ticulars, and  with  its  reputation  and  the  £1,000  guar- 
antee paid  down,  got  it  without  difficulty. 

In  twenty- four  hours,  London  was  flooded  with  red 
posters  announcing  the  great  meeting,  the  speakers 
being  Creegan,  Destin,  Wildish,  and  Damascene,  who 
with  difficulty  had  been  cajoled  into  speaking  so  that 
the  Craft  Socialists  might  be  represented.  But  the 
greatest  difficulty  had  been  with  Creegan,  who  for  a 
long  time  refused  to  go  on  the  same  platform  with 
Damascene,  but  at  last  yielded  to  Destines  persuasion, 
who  pointed  out  that  his  refusal  would  mortally  offend 
the  Craft  Socialists,  who  might  be  useful  later  in  find- 
ing the  money  for  the  Winter  Unemployment  Cam- 
paign. 

The  chairman  was  to  be  the  Duchess  of  Chillington, 
of  whom  Creegan  was  a  particular  pet — whether  he 
liked  it  or  not. 

The  Meteor,  passing  all  its  tradition  of  unorthodoxy, 
came  out  boldly  for  the  men,  flaunting  its  rebellious 
leaders  in  the  face  of  the  Government.  In  vain  did  the 
proprietors  of  the  hall  seek  to  break  the  contract — in 
vain  did  they  offer  its  letting  price  as  a  fine  for  cancel- 
ling it.  Creegan  and  the  Meteor,  an  irresistible  com- 
bination, grim  and  certain,  held  them  to  the  letter  of 
their  bond. 

So  it  was  that  on  the  night  of  the  meeting,  Creegan 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  223 

and  Destin  had  to  fight  their  way  from  the  masses  they 
had  led  in  procession  to  the  hall  from  Tower  Hill  and 
the  Embankment,  a-bristle  with  the  banners  of  revolu- 
tion. As  they  walked  on  to  the  platform  half  an  hour 
over  the  time,  led  by  the  Duchess  in  an  alarming 
autumn  hat  from  Paquin,  he  felt  like  a  fly  crawling 
down  there  on  that  crescent  of  platform,  with  around 
him  tier  on  tier  stretching  into  the  spiral  of  the  roof, 
the  pinky-grey  mass  of  faces  losing  themselves  under 
the  tented  canvas  that  bellied  itself  downwards. 

Behind  them,  the  organ  boomed  out  the  "Marseil- 
laise" and  the  new  marching  song  of  the  workless — 
"Bread  and  Roses."  Little  shivers  of  joy  and  fear  ran 
down  his  spine  as  the  crowd  took  up  the  refrain,  but 
he  quickly  lost  sight  of  the  masses  before  .him  in  one 
little,  earnest,  pallid  face,  on  the  corner  of  the  rows 
of  seats  behind  the  platform.  It  was  the  Green-eyed 
Girl. 

It  seemed  to  him  a  challenge — ^nor  was  he  comforted 
by  the  sight  of  Vesta  Craven  who  sat,  freshly,  in  her 
place  at  the  end  of  the  chairs  aligned  with  the  speakers' 
in  the  front  row. 

The  Duchess  made  quite  a  pretty  little  introductory 
speech  in  which  graceful  hesitation  was  blended  with 
attack  upon  "the  class  to  which  I  have  the  misfortune 
to  belong."  The  constant  iteration  of  "my  class"  and 
"your  class"  became  a  little  painful,  and,  in  spite  of 
the  speaker's  honesty,  a  little  artificial. 

The  audience  at  any  rate  felt  it  that  way,  though, 
with  the  politeness  of  the  people,  they  did  their  best 
to  put  their  aristocratic  comrade  at  her  ease.  How- 
ever, behind  her,  holding  a  watching  brief  as  "a  revolu- 
tionary political,"  Bowcher  was  encouraging  with  his 
"Hear-hears,"  and  "Quite  corrects,"  Mathman  by  his 


224  DEMOCRACY 

side  crouching  a  little  more  over  his  stick,  with  a 
scattering  of  other  middle-class  Socialists  Destin  had 
met  at  the  Chillington  House  reunion,  which  now  to 
Destin  seemed  to  belong  to  another  age. 

Wildish  was  to  be  the  first  speaker — ^the  speaker  to 
whip  up  the  meeting.  But  Wildish  was  not  there. 
Wildish  never  was  there.  So  Destin  had  to  take  his 
place. 

As  he  stepped  to  the  front  of  the  platform,  he  was 
greeted  by  a  mass  of  sound,  confused,  then  finding 
form,  and  reverberating  around  the  bowl  of  the  hall. 
It  was  his  welcome.  The  welcome  of  the  people  to 
one  of  its  heroes. 

This  astonished  him,  as  these  things  always  did 
astonish  him,  for  despite  his  self-assertion  and  even 
appreciation,  there  was  always  a  certain  naivete  which 
made  him  surprised  at  recognition — which  inspired  and 
unstrung  him  together. 

He  made  his  speech,  which  in  its  opening  was  not 
different  to  the  hundred  and  one  speeches  that  were 
being  made  at  this  time  at  a  hundred  street  corners  by 
the  orators  of  Syndicalism.  But  a  difference  showed 
itself  as  inspiration  breathed  on  the  fires  of  speech, 
and  he  passed  almost  unconsciously  from  the  original 
subject  matter,  from  the  "Bread"  to  the  "Roses"  of 
life. 

It  was  an  experiment.  Would  the  hungry  democracy, 
panting  for  bread  and  the  substances  of  life,  rise  to 
roses  ?  For  a  few  minutes  he  went  on  in  silence,  and 
then,  developing  his  theme,  he  showed  the  democracy 
that  the  bread-road  was  but  a  path  to  something  else — 
to  the  uplands  where  the  roses  grew.  He  determined 
he  would  show  the  Green-eyed  Girl  that  the  democracy 
whose  materialism  and  lack  of  imaginativeness  she  had 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  225 

so  often  despised  had  in  its  head  poetry  as  well  as 
bread. 

The  cheers  which  had  greeted  his  opening  sentences 
had  died  away  as  he  developed  his  argument.  He 
finished  in  a  close,  oppressive  silence.  Had  they  un- 
derstood ? 

His  answer  came. 

A  little  Cockney,  pale-faced  and  drawn,  had  jumped 
to  his  feet  out  of  the  ruck  in  front  of  him.  "Roses! 
roses!  roses!  Roses!  roses!  for  Christ's  sake!"  he 
screamed,  incoherent.  It  was  Graney — a  new  Graney 
startled  out  of  his  Cockaigne  saturnity  into  poetry. 

The  cry  was  taken  up  about  him ;  part  of  the  audi- 
ence had  risen.  "Roses — roses!"  echoed  through  the 
hall,  found  its  way  muffled  to  the  waiting  thousands 
outside.  A  woman  of  the  people  waved  cltunsily  a 
flower,  silent,  her  face  set.     "Roses — roses!" 

He  glanced  defiantly  at  the  Green-eyed  Girl  as  he 
had  more  than  once  glanced  at  her  during  his  appeal. 
Now  she  knew. 

But  she  was  not  smiling  this  time.  Her  face  had 
other  lights  in  it. 

As  Destin  turned  to  take  his  place,  he  met  Creegan's 
eyes  full.  There  was  the  glare  of  hate  in  them.  What 
had  he  done?  Was  Creegan  ill?  More  than  once  in 
the  previous  year  he  had  feared  a  break-down,  and 
even  coming  in  the  procession  to  the  hall  his  muttering, 
lowering  jowl  had  startled  him.  What  was  the  matter 
with  him?   .    .    .    But  Damascene  was  speaking  now. 

Damascene,  as  his  narhe  was  called  by  the  chairman, 
came  forward  from  the  scented  coterie  of  the  Craft- 
Platonists,  where  they  lounged  gracefully  on  one  side 
of  the  platform.  In  some  of  them  Destin  recognised 
the  feline  young  men  he  had  seen  that  day  at  Vesta 


226  DEMOCRACY 

Craven's.  They  seemed  to  purr  their  appreciation  and 
exclusiveness  as  their  leader  came  forward  to  the 
centre,  his  cloak  flowing  behind  him,  winging  him  with 
crimson. 

Damascene  looked  perfectly  fresh — freshly  mani- 
cured and  toiletted  generally.  It  was  said  that  for 
these  occasions  Damascene  had  his  face  massaged  and 
made  up.  At  any  rate,  to-night  his  eyebrows  pencilled 
themselves  in  two  delicate  crescents  above  the  black 
eyes. 

He  fixed  his  crowd  with  a  monocle  much  as  he  would 
have  fixed  his  man  if  he  had  been  fighting  a  duel.  The 
man  was  curiously,  unnaturally,  popular,  for  as  he 
came  forward,  his  insolent  smile  blandly  flirting  the 
crowd,  it  burst  into  a  wild  welcome — grimy  navvies 
cheering  to  him  and  winning  from  him  a  genuine  smile 
of  appreciative  recognition,  and  from  the  young  men 
behind  him  smiles  of  rather  patronising  friendliness. 
It  was  one  of  the  whims  of  democracy  which  Destin 
had  never  been  able  to  understand. 

"Fellow-revolutionists" — ^he  began,  his  smile  sud- 
denly giving  place  to  impassivity. 

"...  I  only  appear  on  this  platform  to-night  under 
severe  pressure.  My  friend  Creegan  will  bear  witness 
to  that,  and  I  only  appear  now  because,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  I — er — believe  you  fellows  mean  business  this 
time.  Now — do  you?  do  you  really?"  The  voice  was 
purring  and  enquiring. 

"If  you  will  prove  it  by  going  out  from  this  hall 
and  killing  a  king  or  a  couple  of  kings,  or  failing  that, 
a  brace  of  lords,  I  am  yours  now  and  for  ever.  But  do 
something.  For  God's  sake  do  something.  I  am  tired 
of  words. 

"You  know  I  am  a  Craft-Socialist.    That  means  I 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  227 

want  you  chaps  to  take  what  you  want.  For  example, 
let  my  friends  of  the  cast-iron  corrugated  trousers  go 
out  from  here  and  take  the  railways — let  the  miners 
go  down  the  mines,  and  stay  there  .  .  .  and  so  on. 
If  you  have  a  fancy  to  Buckingham  Palace — don*t  hesi- 
tate— take  it.  Eh?  Do  you  understand?"  A  crackle 
of  laughter  ran  around  the  place. 

"Oh,  but  Fm  in  earnest.  You  know  you  smell  so 
dam  dirty,  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so,  that  en  route 
you  might  take  the  Turkish  Baths  and  the  perfume 
shops  in  Piccadilly.  In  fact  it's  your  unpleasantness 
that  makes  me  a  Socialist. 

"I  don't  like  sweat — do  you?  I  like  good  dinners — 
pate  de  foie  gras  and  Chablis — don't  you?  I  like 
harmony — something  you  don't  understand  yet  but 
which  your  comrades  of  the  Craf  t-Platonists  will  teach 
you. 

"Then  you  know  you  believe  in  small  wages  and  big 
families — I  believe  in  big  wages  and  no  families  at  all. 
But  all  these  things  you  can  learn  from  us  my  dear 
friends.  We  are  starting  our  Immoral  Instruction 
classes  at  Marlington  House,  our  headquarters,  in  the 
autumn.    I  hope  you'll  come. 

"Then,  you  know  I  don't  believe  in  the  People.  I 
never  did.  That  is  why  I  am  a  Democrat.  I  want  to 
abolish  you." 

The  crowd  was  laughing  and  cheering  and  jeering 
in  front  of  him — ^a  little  uneasy  .  .  .  but  who  would 
take  that  devil  Damascene  seriously? 

"Now  let  us  get  this  Augean  stable  business  over 
quickly.  Use  plenty  of  blood  and  brimstone  for  soap 
and  water.  Let  us  have  some  burnings  and  hangings. 
Don't  be  bashful.  Put  up  the  barricades,  and  when 
you've  done  all  this,  why,  then  you  can  come  to  me  to 


228  DEMOCRACY 

lead  you  to  the  Land  of  Pale  Desire,  where  there 
shall  be  neither  marriage  nor  giving  in  marriage,  and 
where  man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone,  but  by  silks 
and  scents  and  sounds." 

Damascene  sat  down  amidst  cheers  and  jeers  and 
laughter.  Did  it  come  from  the  audience  or  from  the 
young  men  who  now  were  cooing  over  their  hero,  who 
with  a  flirt  of  his  cloak  and  monocle  strolled  off  the 
platform  like  a  man  who  has  done  his  work? 

A  figure  was  standing  craggily  in  the  middle  of  the 
stage.  This  time  there  could  be  no  mistaking  the 
feeling  of  the  mass  for  the  man.  The  roaring  wel- 
come, mingled  with  the  slogan  of  an  Irish  contingent 
which  had  marched  to  the  hall  with  the  pipes  playing 
and  the  green  colours  flying,  could  be  heard  rising  un- 
derneath. 

Creegan's  eye  lowered,  then  lifted,  and  Destin  saw 
a  haunting,  almost  insolent  look.  It  was  the  gloating 
of  a  king  over  his  people.  But  the  look  had  swung 
to  the  corner  of  the  platform.  It  was  a  triumphant 
proof  of  something  to  someone. 

Hoarse,  almost  inaudible,  he  started.  He  did  not 
dip  his  tongue  in  honey,  but  in  vitriol.  He  told  them 
that  all  their  sufferings  were  their  own  fault  and 
lashed  them  for  the  part  they  had  taken  in  the  war,  and 
especially  "the  blind,  leaders  of  the  blind,"  in  Parlia- 
ment, whom  they  had  followed. 

Accustomed  to  the  man's  methods,  nobody  resented 
this  at  the  beginning — "it  was  Creegan's  way."  But  as 
the  minutes  went  on,  there  were  one  or  two  half-stifled 
protests.  These  were  ignored  by  Creegan,  who  held 
on  his  way,  thrashing  them  with  a  hail  of  words.  But 
ever  through  his  attack  there  ran  the  moral  that  it  was 
because  they  had  not  listened  to  their  Syndicalist  lead- 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  229 

ers  and  to  him  in  particular  that  they  found  themselves 
in  their  present  position. 

The  *T"  began  to  get  the  upper  hand,  dominating 
the  "you"  and  the  "we." 

Then  came  an  ugly  sneer.  "You  cowardly  whelps !" 
burst  from  his  lips  in  a  stroke  of  ungoverned  rage.  .  .  . 

"  'Oo  are  you  a-torking  to  ?"  came  in  a  thin  stream 
corrosive  as  the  speaker's  own,  and  a  pale  little  face 
showed  itself  as  it  bobbed  from  the  pack.  It  was 
Graney  again — grey  with  rage. 

With  an  exclamation  Creegan  had  sprung  off  the 
platform,  scattering  the  reporters,  and  had  forced  his 
way  through  and  over  the  table,  and  into  the  body  of 
the  crowd  where  he  lost  himself  for  a  moment,  re- 
appearing with  a  kicking,  writhing  something,  which 
he  gripped  in  his  powerful  claws  by  neck  and  trouser 
seat;  carrying  it  foaming  and  screaming  to  the  doors 
which  he  swung  open  with  a  slant  of  his  shoulder,  and 
flung  the  burden  into  the  corridor.  The  crash  came 
dully  to  the  hall.  He  waited  for  a  moment.  There 
was  no  sound. 

He  made  his  way  back  to  the  platform,  on  which  he 
leaped  like  a  man  vaulting  a  gate.  Once  more  he  stood 
there  facing  a  silent  crowd,  his  face  white,  the  flash  of 
madness  in  his  eyes. 

"Any  of  you  can  have  more  where  that  came  from," 
he  said  quietly.    Nobody  moved. 

The  figure  cranked  itself  out  and  over  the  thousands. 
With  a  forefinger  uplifted  like  a  second  Isaiah,  he  told 
the  story  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  of  that  which 
was  to  come.  He  spoke  of  the  divine  right  of  labour 
and  especially  of  the  Syndicalist  leaders  of  labour.  He 
chaunted  a  paean  to  power. 

Power  was  the  "Open  Sesame**  of  the  Democracy. 


230  DEMOCRACY 

"Get  power  boys — ^power.  Worship  it.  Fight  for  it. 
Pray  for  it.  Smash  and  hew  your  way  into  the  Seats 
of  the  Mighty.  You  know  the  words — *He  hath  put 
down  the  mighty  from  their  seat  and  hath  exalted  the 
humble  and  meek.*  You  were  'the  humble  and  meek' 
of  yesterday — ^to-morrow  you  will  sit  enthroned  with 
the  angels  of  God. 

"What  is  it  we  want  ?  Is  it  a  dirty  tuppence  an  hour 
more  in  wages?  Is  it  another  drink  of  beer  in  the 
twenty- four  hours?  Is  it  beasts  of  the  field  that  ye 
are? 

"No,  boys.  We  don't  want  the  beer  nor  the  bread. 
We  want  the  earth !  and  I'm  going  to  get  it  for  ye !" 
He  had  turned  to  the  corner  of  the  platform — de- 
fiantly. 

The  people  stared  at  the  speaker.    Was  he  joking 
Would  he  get  it  for  them?    A  man  laughed. 

But  the  eye  of  the  speaker  as  it  came  round  to  single 
out  the  blasphemer  showed  itself  in  deadly  earnest. 

"I'm  going  to  get  it  for  you!"  The  words  came 
again,  dispassionate  as  those  of  a  god. 

"Yes,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  if  ye  will.  I 
know  what  I  know,  and  I  have  seen  what  I  have  seen. 
Those  things  that  came  to  me  in  the  night  watches, 
when  you  were  mouthing  patriotism  to  heaven.  Those 
things  that  I  cannot  speak  about  here."  And  then,  in 
a  final  uncontrollable  burst — 

"I  say  these  things  by  right  ...  by  divine  right .  . . 
by  the  divine  right  of  democracy." 

There  was  a  sense  of  tremendous  responsibility  be- 
hind the  man's  voice.    He  was  giving  a  message  of  the 


THE  DIVINE  RIGHT  231 

gods  to  the  people.  Again  the  head  swung  round  to 
the  corner  of  the  platform.  Then  Destin  saw  for  the 
first  time  where  it  looked — the  person  to  whom  the  new 
revelation  had  been  made. 

It  was  the  Green-eyed  Girl. 

The  mass,  imperfectly  understanding,  caught  the 
words  "Divine  Right."  Creegan  might  be  a  bit  dotty, 
but  by  God !  he  was  right  there.  "Divine  Right."  That 
was  it.  And  as  Creegan  ended  in  one  of  his  whip-lash 
perorations,  saying  that  Labour  could  only  come  to  its 
own  through  blood  and  barricade — through  the  Gen- 
eral Strike — the  same  roar  came  from  the  crowd  that 
Destin  had  heard  that  day  in  Trafalgar  Square  in  the 
now  dimmed  past.    But  this  time  it  made  him  uneasy. 

As  he  was  making  his  way  out  of  the  dressing  rooms 
with  his  fiancee  hooked  on  his  arm,  telling  him  how 
splendid  he  had  looked  and  spoken  with  the  proud 
voice  of  sweet  ownership,  he  heard  Creegan's  voice 
raised  hoarsely  behind  a  screen.  "Yes — ^by  God !  I'll 
give  ye  not  only  the  earth — ^but  the  sun,  moon,  and 
stars  on  the  top  of  it  if  ye  but  say  the  word.  If  it 
was  young  Destin  that  stood  in  the  way  I  would  crack 
his  neck  across  me  knee.  Say  the  word,  girl  .  .  .  say 
the  word,  mavourneen.    .    .    ." 

Denis  did  not  wait  to  listen.  But  he  knew  who  the 
woman  behind  the  screen  was  as  surely  as  though  he 
had  seen  her.  It  was  the  Green-eyed  Girl.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  shock  of  the  thing  that  set  his  heart  beating 
so  fast. 

As  they  came  out  under  the  arc-lights  of  the  winter's 
night,  a  newsboy  ran  screaming  past  him.     Coming 


232  DEMOCRACY 

dimly  to  him  from  the  flesh-coloured  poster  that  clung 
to  the  boy  as  he  ran  were  the  words : — 

West-end  Scandal 

Mr.  Damascene 

Arrested  ! 

The  lights  swung  round  him  in  a  flaunting  circus 
for  a  moment  .  .  .  now  Damascene.  The  friends  of 
Syndicalism. 

It  was  the  opening  of  the  winter  campaign. 


XV 


"paddy  mac' 


In  the  days  which  followed,  Destin  was  once  more 
confronted  by  the  problem  of  the  Meteor,  In  the  dark 
days  before  the  end  of  the  war  he  had  been  boycotted. 
Nobody  wanted  his  articles  or  him.  Now,  with  the 
rising  tide  of  revolution  he  found  himself  once  more 
run  after  and  even  courted. 

His  "Labour  Thermometer"  in  the  Meteor,  which 
had  been  stopped  for  the  time,  was  resumed  "under  the 
pen  of  our  distinguished  young  contributor,  who  is  so 
rapidly  making  a  name  for  himself  with  both  pen  and 
tongue."  Even  one  or  two  of  the  quarterlies  had 
asked  him  to  contribute  analytical  articles  upon  the 
causes  of  labour  unrest,  whilst  a  publisher,  with  a  name 
that  ringed  the  world,  had  discussed  favourably  with 
him  the  idea  of  a  book  to  be  called  "The  New  Revolu- 
tion." 

Fortunately  he  had  saved  something  in  the  time 
before  the  war,  and  so  was  able  to  hold  over  the  evil 
days. 

But  through  all  this  his  father  and  mother  stead- 
fastly refused  to  see  him.  Even  the  magic  of  the 
Meteor's  name  failed  to  remove  the  ban  of  his  mother, 
who  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  ceased  to  place  the 
Bible  and  the  Meteor  upon  more  or  less  co-equal 

2ZZ 


234  DEMOCRACY 

footing  as  inspired  publications,  and  indeed  began  to 
regard  the  Meteor  since  its  association  with  Creegan, 
as  "not  quite  respectable/*  He  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  one  day  in  a  Bath  chair,  the  face  now  shrunken, 
but  the  black  fiery  eyes  as  untamable  as  ever,  with  the 
mass  of  snowy  hair  brushed  high  above.  His  father 
was  pushing  it,  the  shoulders  curved  a  little  more.  The 
tombstone  was  following  the  fate  of  all  tombstones — 
it  was  falling  over. 

He  had  the  impulse  to  go  up  to  them,  but  at  that 
moment  his  mother  turned  her  eyes  with  disgust  upon 
a  tramp  who,  looking  for  cigarette  stumps,  slouched 
verminous  and  brutalised  in  the  gutter.  That  decided 
him.  His  mother  was  of  those  who  did  not  change. 
Perhaps  he  drew  his  own  will  from  her. 

In  the  organisation  of  the  winter  unemployment 
campaign,  or  "The  Right  to  Live"  campaign,  as 
they  called  it,  Destin  found  his  time  fully  occupied. 
Creegan  was  useless  for  the  organisation  work,  which 
he  himself  disliked,  but  there  was  nobody  else  to  do 
it,  as  Wildish  never  touched  this  kind  of  thing,  and 
indeed  now  seldom  appeared. 

Here  it  was  that  he  discovered  a  helper  where  he 
least  expected  it.  Vesta  Craven  had  thrown  herself 
into  the  breach  arduously,  and  was  proving  both  coun- 
sellor and  consoler.  She  showed,  as  he  had  often 
noticed  amongst  the  women  of  the  movement,  a  rare 
talent  for  organisation,  though  until  the  appearance  of 
Pamela  Priggle  and  her  friends,  this  was  supposed  to 
be  woman*s  weak  point. 

It  was  his  fiancee  who  called  order  out  of  chaos  at 


"PADDY  MAC"  235 

the  new  Direct  Action  headquarters,  for  the  Syndical- 
ists throughout  the  country  feehng  the  need  for  co- 
hesion and  organisation,  had  taken  a  rambling  old 
building  near  the  Mile  End  Road — Fraternity  Hall.  It 
was  she  who  marshalled  a  corps  of  woman  helpers 
from  the  ranks  of  her  friends  at  the  Hampstead  flat, 
choosing  her  women  with  discretion^  and  distributing 
leaflets,  arranging  the  advertising  of  the  public  meet- 
ings, and  dealing  with  the  Syndicalist  correspondence, 
which  had  outgrown  the  staff  of  Creegan's  Union,  and 
had  been  transferred  to  the  new  headquarters. 

Every  day  Destin  felt  a  new  respect  for  the  girl 
who  came  to  him  in  the  leaden  hours  to  soothe  and 
comfort  him.  It  was  like  a  fragrant  bath,  when  dis- 
couraged and  beaten  out  at  the  end  of  the  day,  the 
girl  whom  at  one  time  he  rather  regarded  as  a  butter- 
fly, put  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him  into  new 
hope. 

A  fresh  annoyance  had  come.  Annoyances  were 
always  coming.  In  the  first  place  the  Damascene 
scandal  was  found  to  have  ugly  ramifications,  and  be- 
came, quite  unfairly  associated  in  the  minds  of  the 
public,  with  the  Syndicalist  movement  and  shadowed 
itself  in  the  mind  of  the-man-in-the-street  as  a  sort 
of  octopus. 

A  sub-editor  with  ideas  had  chosen  the  title  "The 
Octopus  ScandaF'for  his  heading,  and  the  tentacles 
of  this  grisly  monster  were  found  to  have  reached 
widely,  holding  not  only  Damascene  himself  but  many 
of  Damascene's  most  intimate  friends,  and  those  chiefly 
Craft-Platonists. 


236  DEMOCRACY 

A  mud-stoftn  burst  over  the  S)Tidicalists  from  the 
capitalist  papers  and  even  from  the  political  Socialists, 
who  by  this  time  had  in  Parliament  developed  a  very 
nice  Puritanism,  and  were  now,  despite  a  protesting 
minority,  hob-nobbing  not  only  with  their  former 
Tory  and  Liberal  opponents,  but  with  the  Churches. 

To  add  to  his  worries,  the  articles  of  "Paddy  Mac" 
broke  out  again,  but  this  time  in  another  way.  Be- 
fore, they  had  flailed  unmercifully  the  political 
Socialist  movement — ^now  it  was  the  skeleton  of  Syn- 
dicalism they  laid  bare  with  the  delicacy  of  a  pen  which 
the  writer  used  as  a  lancet,  which  tortured  Destin 
with  doubt,  made  Wildish  laugh,  and  drove  Creegan, 
whose  temper  at  this  time  was  uncertain,  into  a 
frenzy. 

Now  he  was  reading  in  his  rooms  at  Cress  Street 
(under  his  rising  circumstances  he  had  promoted  him- 
self to  a  couple  of  good  rooms  on  the  first  floor)  the 
following: 

"Whatever  the  faults  of  the  political  Socialists,  who 
have  demolished  their  enemies  by  the  easy  process  of 
being  assimilated  by  them,  and  who  to-day  are  indis- 
tinguishable from  the  greyness  of  Liberalism,  one  can 
turn  with  even  less  hope  or  faith  to  the  new  Syndicalist 
movement  led  by  Mr.  Creegan,  who  is  rapidly  becom- 
ing the  Christ  of  Labour,  once  more  taking  the  posi- 
tion thrust  temporarily,  at  the  end  of  the  war,  upon 
his  young  lieutenant,  Denis  Destin,  and  in  which  the 
divine  right  of  the  king  is  replaced  by  the  new  divine 
right — the  divine  right  of  the  democracy. 

"I  wonder  if  Mr.  Creegan  really  knows  the  people 


'TADDY  MAC*  237 

who  are  associated  with  him  in  the  march  to  the  New 
Jerusalem.  Does  he  not  know  that  'grapes  are  not 
gathered  of  thorns,  nor  figs  of  thistles/  to-day  any 
more  than  two  thousand  years  ago?  And  does  he, 
himself  a  pure-souled  visionary  and  dreamer,  who  we 
suspect  believes  himself  in  communication  with  the 
Deity,  imagine  that  the  gilt-edged  rotces  and  Satanists 
who  have  associated  themselves  with  his  propaganda, 
have  anything  in  common  with  his  aspirations,  which, 
though  wild  and  visionary,  are  at  least  pure  ?  Let  him 
ask  his  own  confessor,  who  at  least  can  tell  him  this,  if 
nothing  else. 

"But  leaving  aside  the  morals  of  the  new  revolution, 
what  are  we  to  think  of  the  rank  and  file  who  are 
enrolling  in  the  army?  Does  not  Mr.  Creegan,  or  at 
least  Mr.  Destin,  who  is  developing  a  very  old  head 
on  very  young  shoulders,  know  that  the  rag,  tag,  and 
bobtail  who  are  enrolling  themselves  so  enthusiastically 
under  the  banners  of  revolution  were  the  enthusiastic 
'blacklegs'  of  yesterday?  Does  the  latter  at  least  not 
see  that  the  older,  wiser  heads  of  the  Socialist-Labour 
movement  like  Jim  McGraw  and  the  Independent 
Socialists  (and  I  do  not  mean  the  orthodoxists  who 
are  to-day  anything  rather  than  Socialist)  are  holding 
themselves  aloof?  Do  they  not  know  that  even  if  they 
managed  to  stampede  the  harder-headed  Trades 
Unionists  into  the  Syndicalist  movement,  which  they 
will  never  do  permanently,  they  are  making  the  most 
fatal  appeal  that  Labour  can  make — the  Appeal  to 
Force?  Is  the  secret  history  of  the  Great  North- 
Western  conference  to-day  so  unfresh  that  they  can- 


238  DEMOCRACY 

not  see  what  must  be  the  end  of  Labour's  appeal  to 
the  Big  Stick? 

"Let  them  remember  that  those  who  live  by  the 
sword  shall  die  by  the  sword." 

Destin  read  and  re-read  the  article,  pulled  between 
fear  and  anger  and  something  else  he  could  not  define. 
That  fellow  was  right  after  all.  Yet  he  was  also 
wrong.  "Those  who  live  by  the  sword  shall  die  by  the 
sword."  Those  were  the  words  that  burned  them- 
selves into  his  brain. 

After  all,  the  same  thought  had  come  to  him  many 
times  before.  In  the  debate  in  the  House ;  at  the  Great 
North- Western  conference ;  in  a  hundred  public  meet- 
ings. .  .  .  Force. 

What  was  the  Power  that  Creegan  talked  of  ?  Where 
was  the  Power?  Why,  the  Power  of  course  was  the 
Big  Stick,  which  Goring  and  the  others  waited  to  use, 
and  of  which  they,  not  the  Syndicalists,  gripped  the 
right  end.    Where  would  it  finish? 

Yet  on  the  other  hand  the  men  who  opposed  direct 
action,  which  after  all  meant  the  Big  Stick  in  practice, 
had  failed  and  failed  miserably.  Paddy  Mac,  who 
he  was  sure  was  Kisterling,  was  right  there  at  least. 
In  his  first  series  of  articles  he  had  shown  the  weak- 
ness, or  worse,  of  the  politicals.  Well,  if  you  were 
not  a  political,  you  had  to  be  a  direct-actionist.  But 
once  the  Green-eyed  Girl  had  said  there  was  a  middle 
way — ^that  the  truth  did  not  lie  in  either  camp.  Was 
she  right,  too? 

But  the  thought  of  the  Green-eyed  Girl  added  to 
his  nervousness  and  uneasiness.    She  had  always  made 


'TADDY  MAC  239 

him  uneasy  and  angry.  She,  Hke  Kisterling,  had 
always  been  against  Creegan's  methods.  She  had 
affected  to  be  the  Superior  Person,  looking  down  from 
the  heights  of  intellect.  Yet  what  did  she  know — 3, 
stranger — an  onlooker? 

Somehow  that  did  not  fit  her,  for  she  knew  the 
movement  even  though  she  did  not  understand  tactics. 
He  had  often  seen  the  same  curious  contradiction  in 
others — in  McGraw  for  instance. 

Denis  had  to  go  down  to  Bethlehem  House  that 
day  about  some  angry  letters  which  had  been  received 
by  the  editor  from  subscribers  who  threatened  to 
withdraw  their  subscriptions  because  of  his  last  "Ther- 
mometer" article.  He  was  about  to  leave  when  Vesta 
Craven  called  for  some  instructions  on  her  way  to 
Fraternity  Hall.    He  pushed  the  paper  towards  her. 

The  little  fair  face  flushed  with  anger  as  she  read 
the  paragraph  he  indicated. 

"Oh!  but  it  is  too  shameful!"  she  said,  throwing 
the  paper  on  the  floor  and  stamping.  It  was  one  of 
the  impetuous,  fascinating  little  ways  she  had  devel- 
oped since  their  engagement.  But  in  this  case  it 
annoyed  him — it  seemed  too  futile  in  face  of  the 
article  which  brought  it  out. 

"The  man  ought  to  be  publicly  whipped.  It  is  all 
a  pack  of  lies."  Her  eyes  were  burning,  her  face 
flushed,  the  little  tendrils  of  hair  that  usually  lay  so 
close  to  her  neck  seemed  to  crisp  themselves.  Lately, 
she  had  developed  a  new  capacity  for  resentment. 

"But  it  is  not  all  lies,"  Destin  said.  "There  is  some 
truth  in  it." 


240  DEMOCRACY 

"Not  a  word.  Can't  you  see,  Denis,  that  it  is  all 
the  malevolent  stupidity  of  that  Kisterling,  who  is  in 
no  camp  and  cannot  agree  with  anybody?  I  have 
always  suspected  him.  I'm  sure  he  gets  big  money 
for  writing  these  lies  against  all  Socialists.  ...  It 
was  all  right  against  the  politicals,"  she  added  inconse- 
quently,  "but  this  is  too  bad." 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  Underground,  squeezing 
his  hand  tightly  at  parting  to  assure  him  of  her 
sympathy  and  understanding.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she 
was  right.  He  had  a  great  belief  in  feminine  intuition, 
and  especially  in  Vesta  Craven's  since  she  had  proved 
so  helpful  at  Fraternity  Hall.  Of  course  they  must  be 
chiefly  lies  anyhow.  What  could  they  do  to  make 
that  man  Kisterling  unmask? 

He  was  still  knotted  over  this  as  he  waited  in  the 
editor's  room  to  see  the  chief,  who  had  walked  out  as 
he  entered,  saying  he  would  return  in  a  moment,  and 
leaving  the  door  half  open  behind  him.  He  heard 
him  say  impatiently — "Well  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't 
see  her  now.  I  am  engaged."  And  then  in  reply  to 
a  murmured  expostulation,  he  broke  out:  "Insists!' 
Why,  confound  it!  Paddy  Mac  or  no  Paddy  Mac, 
she's  not  the  earth.  Who  the  devil  is  she  that  she 
should  insist?" 

Destin  sat  up.  Then  "Paddy  Mac"  was  not  a  man 
but  a  woman.    Who  could  she  be? 

In  the  conversation  that  followed  he  forgot  all  about 
the  incident,  and  having  settled  things  more  or  less 
satisfactorily  with  the  editor,  he  took  his  leave.  He 
passed  out  through  the  anteroom,  when  he  heard  a 


"PADDY  MAC  241 

close,  quiet  little  voice  say — "Fm  sorry,  but  I  must 
insist  upon  seeing  the  editor,  who  I  know  is  in  there." 

"Insist."    "Insist." 

The  truth  broke  in  upon  him.  "Paddy  Mac"  was 
the  Green-eyed  Girl.  The  writer  with  the  pen  like 
a  scalpel  was  a  girl  after  all.  Then  he  saw  that  the 
writer  could  only  have  been  the  girl.    It  was  her  way. 

So  she  was  the  traitress. 

What  would  Creegan  say?  That  was  the  difficulty. 
Should  he  tell  Creegan  now?  If  he  told  him  the  man 
would  do  something  rash,  for  he  knew  Creegan.  If 
he  did  not  tell  him,  the  attacks  would  continue.  But 
in  any  case  the  attacks  would  continue.  This  girl  was 
not  easily  stopped.  Detestable  as  he  now  knew  her  to 
be,  at  least  he  could  not  deny  her  that. 

Drawn  between  many  minds  he  determined  to  put 
it  before  Vesta  Craven  and  to  trust  to  her  woman's 
wit  to  get  him  out  of  the  difficulty.  This  he  did  upon 
reaching  Fraternity  Hall,  where  he  found  his  fiancee, 
charming  and  flushed,  directing  operations  amongst 
her  satellites.  He  called  her  into  his  own  room  and 
put  the  matter  before  her. 

Her  face  was  very  still  as  he  spoke.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  see  her  take  it  so  quietly. 

"What  would  you  do?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,"  she  said  almost  indifferently,  "you  will  of 
course  not  say  a  single  word  to  Creegan  about  it.  If 
he  knew  the  real  story  of  the  traitress"  (there  was 
spume  in  the  word),  "if  he  knew  how  she  had  been 
taking  blood-money  to  paint  his  Syndicalism  with  a 
dirty  brush,  he   would — ^yes,    Fm    sure   he    would — 


242  DEMOCRACY 

strangle  her.  And  we  must  have  no  more  scandal  just 
now.  We  have  enough.  The  movement  is  bigger  than 
the  man.  Some  day  you  shall  tell  him,  after  we  have 
come  to  our  own,  but  not  now." 

Denis  Destin  listened  to  her  with  a  feeling  of  doubt. 
But  after  all,  he  saw  the  soundness  of  her  advice. 
Creegan  was  uncertain.  If  Creegan  got  within  the 
law  to-day  the  new  movement  would  go  to  pieces. 
Better  keep  quiet. 

All  the  same,  there  was  a  strained  feeling  at  his 
heart  as  he  turned  to  his  work. 


XVI 

THE  GRAND  INTERNATIONAL 

The  idea  had  been  buzzing  in  Creegan's  bonnet  for  a 
long  time.  It  was  the  idea  of  his  life — the  great  cul- 
mination of  the  fight  for  freedom  which  should  usher 
in  the  new  age.  The  Grand  International  Trade  Union 
of  all  trades  and  industries,  which  should  see  the  end 
of  craft  Unionism — the  One  Union  idea — the  break 
down  of  the  old  sectional  Unionism — the  Union 
which  should  ultimately  absorb  all  other  Unions, 
bringing  them  under  one  central  control.  This  was  to 
be  the  true  army  of  Labour. 

The  membership  of  the  new  International  Union, 
which  he  intended  should  give  effect  to  the  interna- 
tional combinations  and  understandings  of  Labour 
and  spread  its  meshes  over  Europe,  holding  Capital- 
ism in  its  grip  and  smothering  it,  had  its  nucleus  in  the 
men  of  the  Transport  Union.  To  this  was  now  adding 
the  leaping  figures  of  that  inchoate  mass  of  labour, 
molluscous,  swept  hither  and  thither,  uncertain  and 
purposeless,  which  in  times  of  stress  poured  into  its 
Unions  and  after  the  stress  ebbed  again.  This  mass 
was  now,  under  the  impulse  of  the  crisis  after  the  war, 
pouring  into  the  Grand  International. 

Unfortunately,  as  yet,  the  rank  and  file  of  the  ordi- 
nary Unions  showed  no  signs  of  linking  up  with  the 

243 


244  DEMOCRACY 

Grand  International.  A  few  here  and  there  came  out, 
but  the  mass  remained  behind;  not  from  any  special 
love  for  the  old  methods,  but  through  natural  obtuse- 
ness  and  lethargy.  "The  Trades  Unionist,"  McGraw 
had  once  said,  "was  a  sleepy  beastie.  There  was  noth- 
ing he  asked  so  much  in  life  as  to  be  left  alone." 

Satalia  had  again  appeared  on  the  scene,  flying  over 
the  Channel  at  the  signs  of  the  new  revolution,  her 
scarlet  bodice  glimmering  the  press  of  Britain,  for 
revolution  drew  her  as  the  flame  draws  the  moth. 

She  had  started  a  new  tour  of  the  country,  urging 
the  Trades  Unionists  into  the  new  Grand  International 
camp,  though  Destin  had  been  opposed  to  her  coming 
into  the  fight,  for  he  feared  the  effect  of  her  Latin  fire 
upon  the  temperament  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  which  it 
chilled  instead  of  warming.  But  Creegan  overrode 
him.  A  pretty  thing  indeed  to  throw  cold  water  upon 
the  first  response  from  their  brother  Syndicalists 
across  the  water,  who  one  day  should  form  part  of 
the  Grand  International. 

Then  the  labour  troubles  took  a  more  definite  phase. 
Even  the  politicals  were  forced  to  abandon  their  atti- 
tude of  neutrality  and  discover  the  fact  that  the  work- 
ers were  starving;  all  except  Steltham,  who  with  one 
or  two  others  depreciated  the  use  of  force,  but  were 
overruled  by  McGraw  and  the  growing  militant  minor- 
ity which  now  was  forming  behind  him  on  the  Labour 
benches. 

The  orthodox  Trade  Unions  had  compelled  them 
to  action,  for  once  more,  with  the  masses  of  workless 
coming  on  their  books  again,  the  remnant  of  their 


THE  GRAND  INTERNATIONAL       245 

funds  was  being  still  further  eaten  away.  With  the 
siren  voice  of  Syndicalism  in  their  ears,  some  of  the 
Trade  Unionists  even  threatened  to  decamp  to  the 
Grand  International  if  new  methods  were  not  adopted. 

To  Creegan's  assurance  came  the  news  that  with  the 
object-lesson  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  work- 
ers now  in  the  Grand  International  and  the  necessity  of 
unity,  the  orthodox  Unions  had  been  compelled  to 
enter  into  an  alliance  with  the  Syndicalists  to  force  the 
Government  to  action.  At  a  Conference  of  the  Ex- 
ecutives of  the  Trades  Unions  Federation,  to  which 
the  mass  of  the  Unions  were  now  affiliated  under  the 
new  stress,  and  of  the  Grand  International,  certain 
working  terms  were  drawn  up,  which  committed  the 
parties  to  nothing  but  a  temporary  alliance  until  better 
conditions  were  obtained  and  work  provided  by  the 
Government. 

"Bread,  Work,  or  Revolution !"  was  now  the  cry. 

It  was  decided  to  force  the  hands  of  the  Govern- 
ment by  a  national  strike  of  all  trades  and  industries, 
the  first  attempt  in  Britain  to  bring  the  General  Strike 
proper  into  action. 

There  was  blood  in  Creegan*s  eye  as  he  and  Destin 
walked  from  the  conference.  "We  have  them  now 
where  we  want  them,"  he  said.  He  raised  one  hairy 
paw  above  his  head.  "Who  was  it  said  that  Direct 
Action  was  played  out?  Where  are  the  politicals  to- 
day? Necessity  has  shown  them  that  the  strike  is 
the  only  weapon. 

"Did  ye  see  how  I  walked  over  Manby?"  he  asked, 
his  temper  rising.    "Did  ye  see  me  go  through  John- 


246  DEMOCRACY 

son?  Where  was  Jim  McGraw  when  I  got  to  work 
on  him?"    There  was  brutal  jubilation  in  his  voice. 

"They  all  have  to  come  to  Brian  Creegan  when 
they  want  something  done.  They  all  have  to  come 
to  me." 

He  laughed.  There  was  something  boyish  and  joy- 
ful in  it.  In  the  hard  sunshine  of  the  March  morning, 
his  cheroot  jutting  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  his 
sugarloaf  hat  slanting  over  his  hard,  keen  face  and 
steel-grey  hair,  his  eyes  skinting  bluely  into  the  sun, 
he  looked  a  beautiful  untamable  animal. 

"Listen,  Denis  boy.  They  say  I  am  an  autocrat. 
They  say  I  am  too  hard.  Why  wouldn't  I  be  hard — 
why  wouldn't  I  have  me  way  when  I  know  what  is 
best  for  them?"  He  was  arguing,  not  with  Destin, 
but  with  some  invisible  third  person,  and  then,  as  his 
companion  remained  silent: — 

"Ye  don't  doubt  me — do  ye?" 

The  face  had  changed — ^he  was  looking  close,  pierc- 
ingly, at  his  lieutenant. 

"Denis  boy — I  love  ye,  but  by  Christ !  if  ye  stood  in 
the  way  of  the  people — of  the  Cause — I'd  think  no 
more  of  choking  you  than  I'd  think  of  choking  Gor- 
ing's  bull  neck." 

Destin,  in  spite  of  himself,  felt  afraid.  All  this  talk 
of  omnipotence — ^yes,  of  the  physical  violence  itself — 
frightened  him.  Where  was  it  going  to  end  ?  But  he 
had  to  answer.    This  man  would  not  be  denied. 

"Of  course  I  don't  doubt  you,  Brian,"  he  said,  try- 
ing to  feel  it,  "but  all  the  same  I'm  a  bit  afraid  some- 
times." 


THE  GRAND  INTERNATIONAL       247 

"Afraid!  Afraid!  What  right  have  you  to  be 
afraid  if  I'm  not?    What  are  ye  afraid  of?'* 

"Well  Brian,  you  saw  the  Big  Stick  at  work  at  the 
Great  North-Western.  And  those  fellows  mean  to 
fight.    You  know  that." 

"Fight!  of  course  they'll  fight — ^but  so  will  we. 
And  we  are  twenty  to  one.  We'll  raise  a  Citizen  Army. 
You  know  we've  commenced  already.  Captain  Mc- 
Bride  has  hold  of  the  men  and  the  authorities  daren't 
stop  us. 

"I  tell  you,  the  people  will  never  come  to  their  own 
through  the  milk  and  water  of  Parliament — ^but  only 
over  the  barricade.  .  .  .  God!  ...  to  die  in  the 
street!" 

He  had  dropped  his  cigar  and  was  staring  at  it  on 
the  ground. 

"Denis,  it's  good  to  be  alive,  boy.  And  maybe  some 
day  we'll  all  be  happy.  Some  day." — His  voice  had 
changed — "Maybe  Denis  boy  I'll  have  a  wife  and  little 
gossoons  and  little  girls  about  me  before  I  die."  He 
was  standing  in  the  busy  London  street,  this  time  look- 
ing above  the  housetops  as  though  he  saw  a  vision. 
The  blue  eyes  had  pierced  the  envelope  of  another 
world,  seeing  things  the  other  did  not  see. 

He  shivered  a  little.  "It's  quare  Denis,  but  there's 
someone  walking  over  me  grave.  Do  ye  believe  in 
them  things?" 

"Nonsense  Brian,"  the  other  replied.  "But  there's 
a  long  way  to  go  before  the  little  gossoons  come  to 


us. 
ft 


'Maybe  not  so  far  as  ye  think.    I've  a  great  mind 


248  DEMOCRACY 

to  tell  you" — ^he  put  his  grip  deep  on  Destin's  shoulder 
until  it  hurt. 

"There's  a  girl  Denis,  maybe  ye  know  her  .  .  ."  he 
broke  off  and  muttered — "No,  not  now,  not  now.  .  .  ." 
But  Destin  knew  of  whom  he  spoke  and  something 
hurt  him.  Perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  what  he 
knew  about  the  girl  and  of  what  the  man  didn't  know. 

"But  Brian — v/hat  are  we  going  to  do  if  we  win? 
What  is  the  future  to  be  ?  It  is  what  I  am  often  ask- 
ing myself." 

"Damn  the  future !  let  the  future  look  after  itself," 
replied  Creegan.    He  strode  on. 

They  were  passing  along  the  Strand,  when  Creegan 
suddenly  stopped  and  wheeled  Destin  round  square  to 
the  roadway. 

"Look  Denis— look!" 

On  a  poster  were  the  words — "Great  Strike — 
Vienna  Aflame !" 

"It's  coming  boy — it's  coming." 

He  bought  the  paper  and  turned  to  the  "Stop  News" 
column.  "A  great  strike  has  broken  out  in  Vienna 
with  the  demand  for  work  by  the  unemployed,  who 
are  parading  the  city  in  thousands.  The  shops  are 
menaced  and  looting  has  already  commenced." 

It  was  the  recoil  of  war. 

The  evening  papers  told  of  strikes  in  Berlin.  Within 
the  week,  Milan,  Parma,  and  Rome  had  taken  fire, 
with  Paris  trailing  behind  them.  In  the  stoppage  of 
the  commercial  machine  following  the  war  and  the 
inpouring  of  the  millions  from  the  front,  strike  wave 
after  strike  wave  was  running  lambent  over  the  Con- 


THE  GRAND  INTERNATIONAL       249 

tinent.  It  was  as  though  some  telepathy  existed  be- 
tween country  and  country.  It  was  Paris  yesterday 
— what  would  it  be  to-morrow  ?  The  hounds  of  labour 
were  hot  on  the  trail,  the  blood-scent  running  strongly 
in  the  nostrils.  It  was  International  Trades  Unionism 
in  excelsis.  It  was  the  justification  and  apotheosis  of 
the  Syndicalist  movement. 

Creegan's  temperature  rose  with  the  news.  The  Day 
of  Armageddon  which  he  had  so  often  prophesied  was 
approaching.  Labour  was  coming  to  its  own  at  last 
by  the  Direct  Action  route. 

"Where  are  the  politicals  now  Denis?"  was  his  cry. 
"Where  are  they?" 


XVII 

THE    APPEAL    TO    FORCE 

The  secret  had  kept.  The  day  of  the  General  Strike, 
the  throw  of  the  dice  upon  which  organised  labour  had 
placed  everything,  was  known  to  nobody  save  the  few 
at  the  head. 

There  was  perhaps  a  certain  tension  in  the  air — ^an 
oppressiveness — ^but  nothing  determinate.  The  Gov- 
ernment was  quiet.  There  had  been  rumours  of  the 
movements  of  troops  from  Alder  shot  and  the  strength- 
ening of  the  police  in  the  cities,  but  nobody  really  be- 
lieved them.    Everything  went  on  as  before. 

Creegan  it  was  who  threw  the  match  into  the  pow- 
der magazine.  Three  red  rockets  were  to  be  the  signal, 
sent  up  from  Fraternity  Hall  and  taken  up  from  centre 
to  centre — to  pass  from  city  to  city. 

It  was  an  April  afternoon  of  bellying  thunderclouds, 
which  shut  out  the  sun,  steeping  London  in  a  ghostly 
twilight.  Destin  was  coming  back  to  the  Hall  in  the 
brooding  silence,  when  there  came  to  his  ears  a  dull 
boom.  Startled  and  forgetful  he  thought  it  was  the 
opening  of  the  thunderstorm,  when  he  saw,  stabbing 
themselves  upwards  into  the  night,  each  following  the 
other,  three  fiery  serpents  which  hissed  as  they  mount- 
ed, spitting  malignantly  as  they  burst  into  a  shower 

250 


THE  APPEAL  TO  FORCE  251 

high  over  the  red  flag  that  broke  itself  out  from  the 
roof.  Standing  underneath  it,  the  halyards  in  his 
hands,  the  gaunt  figure  of  Creegan,  who,  his  hand  to 
his  eyes,  followed  the  fiery  trail  uo  there  in  the  storm- 
skies. 

The  silence  had  fallen  again.  Then  the  stir  of  feet 
coming  through  the  shadows. 

Now  the  streets  were  full  of  people.  Close  by,  the 
gates  of  a  jam  factory  opened,  emptying  into  the 
street  a  flock  of  girls  white-aproned  and  hatted,  who 
jigged  a  sort  of  Carmagnole  in  the  road.  A  railway 
train  that  ran  below  him  stopped,  and  he  saw  the  driver 
climb  oflF  his  engine,  leaving  it  standing  there.  From 
an  adjacent  signal  box  he  watched  the  signalman,  his 
hat  on  his  head,  in  his  hand  a  glazed  black  bag  with 
his  empty  lunch  things,  walk  soberly  down  the  stairs. 

It  was  the  General  Strike.  The  dream  become  real- 
ity. 

That  night  Fraternity  Hall  was  ablaze  with  lights. 
So  was  Bethlehem  House,  which,  however,  finding  by 
this  time  that  the  animal  they  had  spurred  had  taken 
the  bit  in  its  teeth,  now  wanted  to  pull  it  up.  All  night 
the  machines  roared — all  night  the  motor-cars  and 
newsboys  streamed  the  streets.  The  Underground  sta- 
tions were  crowded  with  masses  of  City  men  wanting 
to  get  home  and  finding  no  trains.  Motor  buses  lay 
about  the  streets  like  stranded  leviathans.  The  shop- 
keepers, timid,  were  putting  up  their  shutters,  fearing 
something  behind  this  silence.  A  mass  of  people 
thronged  the  incline  to  the  Great  North-Western,  curs- 
ing the  strikers.    Some  of  the  suburbanites  had  even 


252  DEMOCRACY 

started  to  walk  along  the  deserted  metals — deserted 
save  for  the  lines  of  trains  which  blocked  the  ways. 

The  Meteor  leader  in  the  morning  was  sententious 
and  responsible.  'Whilst  Labour  had  been  content  to 
demand  the  natural  things  of  life  in  a  natural  way,  they 
had  been  satisfied,  serving  all  classes,  to  help  it  to  get 
what  it  wanted  and  so  allay  labour  discontent.  But 
now  that  the  brutal  General  Strike  had  been  loosed, 
now  that  Democracy  had  started  on  its  crimson  march 
to  power,  they  had  no  option  but  to  stand  on  the  side 
of  law  and  order." 

The  other  papers,  whether  Liberal  or  Conservative, 
followed  suit.  The  Olympian  frankly  stated  that  the 
temporary  Coalition  War  Government  of  yesterday 
was  the  forerunner  of  the  permanent  Coalition  Gov- 
ernment of  to-day — ^another  sort  of  War-Government, 
forecasting  the  time  when  they  would  only  Jiave  two 
parties  in  Great  Britain,  the  Socialist  and  the  anti- 
Socialist.  "We  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  we  shall 
find  in  the  ranks  of  the  newer  and  more  permanent 
Coalition  many  of  our  old-time  opponents  in  the  ranks 
of  Labour,  who  will  give  Labour  that  sane  representa- 
tion it  needs." 

Creegan  was  contemptuous.  "What  did  I  tell  you?" 
he  asked  triumphantly.  *T  am  always  right.  Now  we 
shall  know  who  are  for  us  and  who  against.  Labour 
must  stand  on  one  side  or  the  other  of  the  Syndicalist 
fence — ^no  more  sitting  on  it  now." 

Destin,  although  he  had  anticipated  it,  yet  felt  chilled 
when  he  saw  the  new  combination.  If  they  were  ap- 
pealing to  force,  it  was  a  case  of  all  the  machinery  of 


THE  APPEAL  TO  FORCE  253 

force  welded  together  through  the  centuries  against  the 
weapon  of  yesterday,  which  might  snap  in  their  hands. 

Now,  Nonconformist  and  Churchman  had  sunk 
their  differences,  financial  and  theological,  in  the  face 
of  the  common  enemy.  Destin,  like  Creegan,  had  re- 
garded the  churches  as  spent  forces.  Now  they  were 
undeceived — ^at  least  Destin,  for  nothing  could  shake 
Creegan  from  an  opinion  once  taken. 

The  nonconformists  and  the  high  churchmen  of  yes- 
terday who  had  been  flirting  with  the  rising  democracy, 
now  came  out  as  sanguinary  lambs  of  Christ.  The 
Right  Hon.  Sir  Jasper  Noah,  President  of  the  Free 
Church  Assembly,  was  announced  to  speak  at  the 
"Magog"  to  the  members  of  the  Free  Churches,  and 
Destin,  through  the  kindly  office  of  Bread,  the  noncon- 
formist journalist,  managed  to  get  a  ticket  of  admis- 
sion. 

He  recalled  the  older  meeting  of  the  years  before 
which  had  ushered  him  into  the  movement.  Now  he 
found  himself  listening  in  the  same  hall  to  Sir  Jasper, 
a  splendid  looking  patriarch  of  some  seventy  winters, 
whose  flowing  beard  and  leonine  head  might  have 
stepped  out  of  the  Book  of  Genesis.  The  grey-coated 
men  before  him,  who  seemed  to  be  doing  their  best 
not  to  look  like  clergymen,  listened  to  him  with  grave 
attention  and  appreciation.  His  speech,  which  was 
flaslied  over  the  wires  the  same  evening,  was  direct:     ^' 

"Let  us  not  make  the  mistake,  friends,  that 
Christianity  excludes  the  exercise  of  force.  Behind 
the  promises  of  Christianity  there  are  always  the  pen- 
alties— ^the  sword  of  God  uplifted  to  smite  down  the 


254  DEMOCRACY 

sinner.  The  Divine  Word  itself  is  full  of  warnings, 
and  even  utters  its  last  comforts  beneath  the  lurid  sun- 
set of  Revelation. 

"Force  is  hell  we  are  told,  but  hell  itself  has  its 
function  of  purification.  Christianity  is  not  only  a 
religion  of  mildness — it  is  also  a  religion  of  blood. 
Christianity  is  not  merely  evolutionary — it  is  catas- 
trophic. All  government  rests  upon  force — ^behind  the 
judge  there  stands  the  soldier  with  ball  cartridge  and 
the  hangman  balancing  his  noose. 

"In  these  days,  no  man  can  serve  two  masters.  You 
who  listen  to  me  are  either  for  Society  or  against  it. 
The  seductions  of  a  spurious  democracy  no  longer  must 
find  a  place  in  your  hearts.  You  must  tear  out  the 
evil  thing  before  it  shears  you  of  your  strength  as 
Delilah  shore  Samson.  The  thunders  of  the  pulpit 
must  be  followed  by  the  thunder  of  the  guns.  If  we 
have  to  slay  this  hydra-headed  monster  of  Syndicalism, 
the  sooner  the  better.  You  are  lambs  of  Christ — ^but 
lambs  that  can  bite  and  tear." 

Yet  even  here  as  in  that  other  "Magog"  meeting, 
there  was  the  enemy  within  the  gate. 

"Shame!  Shame!  Sir  Jasper." 

It  seemed  the  echo  of  his  own  voice  from  the  past. 
Once  more  he  saw  the  thrust  of  nec*k — the  intentness 
which  turned  and  craned  to  get  a  view  of  the 
speaker. 

But  this  time  there  were  other  cries. 

"Hear — ^hear!"  came  from  a  dark-faced  young 
clergyman,  with  the  saucer  hat  of  the  High  Church- 
man.   Here  and  there  were  spatters  of  "Hear — hears !" 


THE  APPEAL  TO  FORCE  255 

drowned  in  a  rising  though  orderly  growth  of  "Dis- 
graceful!" "Traitors!*' 

"Who  says  'Shame'?"  asked  the  patriarch  of  the 
platform,  dignified,  holding  up  a  strong  white  hand. 

"I  do." 

In  the  centre  of  the  hall,  within  a  few  chairs  of  the 
place  where  he  himself  had  raised  his  protest  before, 
there  rose  a  slender  figure,  clothed  in  grey.  The  face 
was  the  face  of  a  child,  crowned  however  with  snow 
white  hair.  The  eyes  luminous.  The  mouth  small 
but  firm.    The  whole  figure  vibrant. 

The  figure  was  known  to  every  man  there,  including 
Destin.  That  was  Trent,  the  man  who  had  left  his 
Nonconformist  church  and  started  a  church  of  his 
own  in  East  London: '"The  Church  of  Christ — Social- 
ist," taking  with  him  half  his  congregation.  "Social- 
ist Trent,"  scholar.  University  man,  and  fanatic. 

Each  Sunday  the  reporters  of  the  London  papers 
crowded  to  the  church  of  the  man  who  preached  Christ 
the  Socialist.  Every  Sunday  the  curious,  half  fearing 
blasphemy,  crowded  his  doors.  Self -advertiser  or 
zealot — ^vulgar,  tub-thumper  or  saint — ^hypocrite  or 
martyr.    So  the  people  spoke  of  him. 

"I  say  'Shame!'  Every  word  of  your  speech,  Sir 
Jasper,  is  a  blow  in  the  teeth  of  the  Crucified  One. 
The  Church  of  Christ  is  not  the  church  of  noose  and 
rifle  but  the  church  of  love." 

"Rot !"  "Humbug !"  The  cries  were  coming  from 
the  grey-coated  men  about  him. 

"I  tell  you.  Sir  Jasper,  it  is  you  and  people  like  you 
who  have  twisted  the  churches  from  their  true  path 


256  DEMOCRACY 

and  the  Word  of  God  into  a  bye  word  for  the-man-in- 
the-street.  It  is  you  who  are  emptying  the  churches 
of  Christ,  from  which  you  have  driven  the  Spirit  of 
God.  It  is  because  of  you  that  the  masses  of  the  people 
outside  the  Churches  are  following  that  Spirit  to  its 
refuge  elsewhere — in  the  democratic  movements  of  the 
day.  You  are  a  disgrace  to  your  high  position.  You 
are  no  Christian.  ,  .  ." 

"Throw  him  out!    Blasphemy!    Blasphemy!" 

Destin  knew  the  signs  too  well  to  make  any  mistake. 
All  mobs  were  the  same,  whether  navvies  or  parsons. 
He  saw  the  blood  coming  to  the  eyes  that  turned  them- 
selves upon  the  speaker. 
,     "I  tell  you,  Sir  Jasper,  that  God  .  .  ." 

The  figure  came  violently  forward.  In  a  moment 
there  was  a  surging  group  of  which  he  was  the  centre 
— the  white  hair  and  grey  eyes  struggling  over  the  top. 
Two  muscular  Christians  had  seized  him — one  of  them 
a  bald-headed  man  with  a  bull  neck  and  eyes  that 
stared  themselves  apart.  They  hoisted  him  up  bodily 
and  dragged  him  to  the  central  aisle,  where,  to  the  cry 
of  those  left  behind,  they  broke  with  him  through  the 
swing  doors. 

There  was  a  subdued  tumult  as  the  steps  receded. 
Then  all  was  silence. 

Sir  Jasper  Noah  was  not  again  interrupted.  The 
lambs  of  Christ  had  done  their  work. 


XVIII 


THE    GREEN-EYED    GIRL 


As  the  General  Strike  developed,  Society  developed 
with  it.  As  each  railway  was  hung  up  and  the  wheels 
of  industry  came  to  a  standstill,  Society  showed  itself 
outraged  but  resolved,  sinking  all  differences  before 
the  wolf  in  the  fold. 

The  tramway  and  railway  companies  were  making 
half-hearted  attempts  to  keep  their  trams  and  trains 
running,  importing  little  trembling  "black-leg"  clerks 
or  burly  poHce  inspectors,  who  brought  confusion 
wherever  they  pulled  the  unfamiliar  lever.  To  break 
the  strike,  the  Workers'  Freedom  Society  had  been 
called  upon  to  supply  the  millions  of  "free  labourers" 
about  whom  it  had  always  boasted,  but  was  only  able 
to  supply  a  handful,  and  that  of  doubtful  quality. 
Some  of  the  submerged,  attracted  by  the  new  and 
princely  wages,  had  come  out  of  their  slums,  but, 
untrained  and  unfit,  could  not  keep  the  giant  wheels 
turning. 

There  had  been  some  talk  about  calling  up  the  con- 
scripts to  the  colours,  but  this  was  regarded  as  a  last 
resource,  as  the  authorities  were  doubtful  about  the 
effect  upon  the  people  if  they  used  the  conscription  of 
yesterday  as  a  strike-hreaker. 

In  the  meantime  Creegan  every  day  grew  more 
confident.    Each  morning  saw  him  entrenched  behind 

257 


258  DEMOCRACY 

a  bulwark  of  newspapers,  from  where  he  threw  his 
challenges  to  Destin,  who  daily  became  more  uncertain 
as  success  seemed  within  their  grasp. 

One  morning,  as  Destin  came  into  the  inner  room 
at  Fraternity  Hall,  Creegan  showed  him  a  caricature  in 
Punch,  representing  him  as  a  sort  of  revolutionary  red- 
capped  navvy,  wielding  a  pickaxe  over  the  head  of 
Society,  which  cowered  under  his  feet. 

"Do  ye  know  who  that  is?"  he  asked,  triumph  in 
his  eye.  "The  fellow  that  drew  that,  knew  his  busi- 
ness— ^but  there's  something  about  it  too  that  I  don't 
like — it's  too  .  .  .  too  humble.  When  the  people  want 
a  leader,  they  want  a  leader.  I'm  not  a  navvy  any 
longer." 

It  was  the  old  touch  of  omnipotence.  The  blue  eyes 
were  a  trifle  more  imcertain — a  trifle  more  wavering. 

Whilst  they  were  speaking,  a  London  docker,  an 
undersized  sandy  little  man,  came  into  the  room  and 
without  apology  interrupted  with  a  question. 

"What  do  ye  mean  by  coming  in  that  way  for?" 
scowled  Creegan.  "Have  ye  no  manners?  Maybe 
you'll  knock  in  future  before  ye  come  into  a  private 
room." 

The  look  he  bent  upon  the  little  man  frightened  him, 
and  he  scuttled  out  with  a  muttered  apology  like  a 
startled  rat.  "We'll  have  to  teach  these  fellows 
manners,  Denis,"  said  he. 

Destin  looked  at  him,  with  something  on  his  lips. 
But  one  look  at  the  man  was  sufficient.  He. was  silent. 
Most  people  were  silent  before  Brian  Creegan. 

"We  are  dead  sure  of  victory  now,  my  boy.     No 


THE  GREEN-EYED  GIRL  259 

more  peaceful  progress  backwards  by  the  vote.  The 
strike!    The  strike!" 

As  they  were  speaking,  the  door  opened  and  the 
Green-eyed  Girl  came  in,  looking,  Destin  thought,  a 
little  wan,  with  shadows  under  her  eyes  and  in  the 
hollow  of  her  cheeks  as  though  cobwebs  hung  there. 
At  the  sight  of  "her  his  gorge  rose.  The  traitress  had 
actually  the  insolence  to  come  into  the  camp  of  the 
man  she  was  betraying. 

But  Creegan  had  hurried  to  her  side  and  was  im- 
pulsively shepherding  her  to  the  caricature.  She  did 
not  seem  unwilling,  and  smiled  and  praised  it.  Destin 
forced  himself  to  a  distant  greeting,  and  was  taken 
off  his  balance  by  hearing  the  girl  say  coolly  to  Creegan 
— "You  know,  Brian,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  your  plans 
— something  I  can  write  on  in  the  Meteor/'  The  inso- 
lence of  the  girl  passed  belief. 

Destin  came  forward  quickly.  He  was  going  to  stop 
that  at  any  rate. 

"You  know,  Brian,  I  don't  agree  with  everything 
you  do,"  the  full  voice  went  on,  "but  all  the  same  I 
like  to  know  what  you're  doing." 

"You  don't  agree  with  me,  girl.  Ah,  that's  because 
ye  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Now  listen 
here." 

He  ran  off  into  a  violent  explanation  in  which  he 
used  arms,  eyes,  and  even  his  cheroot  to  emphasise  his 
points.  But  they  were  all  general.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Destin  remembered  with  relief,  Creegan  him- 
self had  no  clear  idea  of  their  plans,  which  were 
gripped  only  by  himself  and  the  other  members  of  the 


260  DEMOCRACY 

Strike  Organisation  Committee,  upon  which  Creegan's 
Tiame  appeared,  simply  because  he  could  not  be  left  out. 
Organisation  had  little  interest  for  Brian  Creegan. 

The  girl  came  straight  towards  him.  "Why  do  you 
avoid  me,  Mr.  Destin?"  she  asked  smoothly.  "Are 
you  afraid  of  me  ?" 

There  was  a  rough  answer  upon  his  lips,  but  some- 
how he  could  not  be  rude  to  the  girl  in  that  moment. 

"I  ?  Vm  afraid  of  nothing — ^not  even  of  you,"  he 
laughed,  a  little  uneasily.  "Fm  only  afraid  of  Brian 
Creegan  there,"  he  said  ironically. 

"You  have  reason  to  be."  The  little  voice  had  sunk 
earnestly.  "You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  that 
day  at  the  Circester  Congress — 'Brian  Creegan  will 
break  his  heart  some  day.'  Well,  he  is  going  to  do  it 
unless  we  save  him." 

"We."  "We."  It  seemed  mockery.  She,  the  girl 
who  was  attacking  him  anonymously.  She,  the  girl 
who  hated  the  Syndicalist  movement. 

"Who  are  *we'?"  he  asked  brutally. 

"Why,  you  and  I  of  course,"  the  girl  replied  simply. 
In  spite  of  himself  there  was  something  that  touched 
him  in  the  association  of  his  name  with  hers. 

But  at  that  moment  Vesta  Craven  came  into  the 
room,  a  sheaf  of  correspondence  in  her  hand. 

She  did  not  seem  to  see  the  other  girl,  whom  she 
ignored  as  she  came  forward.  She  slipped  her  arm 
through  Destines,  with  her  charming  air  of  proprietor- 
ship, as  she  showed  him  the  papers.  It  vexed  him.  He 
made  a  half  mechanical  movement  and  loosed  it.  Vesta 
Craven's  pink  had  taken  a  deeper  shade. 


THE  GREEN-EYED  GIRL  261 

Then  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself,  and  almost  osten- 
tatiously he  put  his  arm  through  hers  as  though  he 
had  moved  only  to  make  the  change.  But  the  Green- 
eyed  Girl  was  talking  again  to  Creegan,  her  slender 
figure,  clothed  in  a  little  short  grey-blue  jacket  and 
skirt,  plain  and  close  fitting,  setting  off  the  Indian  stone 
necklace  she  wore.  Destin  glanced  at  her  once  and 
then  turned  away.    He  hated  to  look  at  her. 

She  pretended  to  have  come  to  warn  Creegan  and 
the  Strike  Committee  of  the  preparations  that  were 
going  on  behind  the  scenes.  Creegan  called  to  Destin, 
who  left  Vesta  Craven's  side.  She  seemed  reluctant 
to  leave  the  room,  but  having  got  the  information  she 
wanted,  finally  went  out. 

"Come  here,  Denis,"  he  said,  "and  listen  to  this 
story.    It'll  amuse  you." 

"I'm  only  warning  Brian  that  it  is  a  case  of  Brian 
Creegan  versus  the  British  Empire.  If  you  think  that 
Society  can  be  terrorised  into  submission  by  even  a 
complete  General  Strike,  you  are  making  a  great  mis- 
take— a  vital  mistake.  Call  off  the  dogs  before  it  is  too 
late.  The  man  they  are  holding  up  is  a  dangerous 
man — ^he  is  armed  to  the  teeth — ^his  pocket  and  his 
beliefs  are  being  threatened — and  he  is  a  little  fright- 
ened.   Frightened  men  are  dangerous." 

"Frightened,"  growled  Creegan.  "By  Christ!  we'll 
tear  the  throat  out  of  him.  We'll  empty  his  pockets. 
It  is  a  case  of  'stand  and  deliver'  now." 

"But,  Brian,  you  don't  know — ^you  really  don't." 
She  had  put  one  little  hand  on  the  great  arm  and  was 
looking  up  into  the  blue  eyes  that  towered  above  her; 


262  DEMOCRACY 

looking  up  tenderly,  it  seemed  to  Destin.  The  woman 
was  a  Delilah.  A  moment  ago  he  had  been  willing 
to  listen  to  her — ^now  that  look  banished  all  considera- 
tion from  him.    She  was  treacherous. 

"Let  me  ask  you  a  question— only  one,"  she  went  on 
as  he  broke  away  impatiently. 

"Have  you  got  hold  of  the  policeman?  have  you  got 
hold  of  the  soldier?  is  the  navy  in  your  hands?  Is 
every  redcoat  and  every  bluejacket  a  Syndicalist?  Is 
he  even  a  Trade  Unionist?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I," 
replied  Creegan. 

"Then  call  off  the  dogs.  All  Society  rests  on  force. 
Until  you  get  the  force  on  your  side  you  are  challeng- 
ing something  you  cannot  tackle.  Come,  Brian.  You 
had  once  a  name  as  a  fighting  man.  What  would  you 
think  of  going  into  the  ring  with  your  bare  fists  against 
a  man  armed  with  a  revolver?" 

The  little  voice  was  immensely  pleading.  Where 
was  it  that  he  had  heard  those  words  before?  "All 
Government  rests  on  force."  It  was  Sir  Gilbert  Gor- 
ing speaking  again. 

"I  will  tell  you  something  else,"  the  girl  went 
on  speaking  low  and  more  rapidly.  "At  the  mo- 
ment .   .   ." 

The  door  opened.  They  turned  round  impatiently. 
It  was  Miss  Craven  again,  who  with  forehead  creased 
was  bringing  in  some  more  papers. 

"Not  now.  Miss  Craven,"  said  Creegan. 

"No,  Vesta,  go  away  now,"  said  Destin  perempto- 
rily.   Nor  did  he  notice  the  angry  look  that  came  into 


THE  GREEN-EYED  GIRL  263 

the  girVs  eyes.  She  went  out,  her  head  a  trifle  high, 
but  the  others  had  turned  their  backs  on  her. 

".  .  .  At  the  moment,"  went  on  the  girl,  "do  you 
know  that  the  masters  are  making  overtures  to  the 
*key'  unions  so  as  to  break  the  strike?  Do  you  know 
they  are  following  the  American  method? — I  saw  them 
doing  the  same  thing  some  years  ago  in  the  United 
States.  They  simply  take  certain  key  unions  like  that 
of  the  locomotive  men,  the  men  they  cannot  run  a  Gen- 
eral Strike  without;  they  pet  them,  give  them  high 
wages  and  short  hours,  and  get  them  over  against 
their  comrades.  When  this  strike  has  run  a  few  weeks 
they  will  get  them  over.  You  are  playing  against 
loaded  dice,  Creegan." 

Creegan  walked  over  to  the  table  and  picked  up  a 
Meteor.  With  a  heavily  ditched  forefinger  he  pointed 
downwards  at  a  tiny  paragraph.  .  .  .  "It  has  been 
ascertained  that  nearly  all  the  locomotive  drivers  are 
out." 

"There's  your  answer,"  he  said,  the  old  triumph  in 
his  voice.  "It  isn*t  Brian  Creegan  that  doesn't  know 
his  material.  I  tell  ye  this  strike  is  different  to  all  the 
others.    I  tell  ye." 

The  girl,  her  voice  a  little  unsteady  and  pleading, 
after  glancing  at  Destin,  looked  at  the  man  she 
addressed  as  a  mother  might  look  at  a  child,  and  went 
on — "But  there  is  something  else.  I  cannot  speak  of 
it  now,  but  it  is  coming.  The  masters  I  tell  ye  will 
draw  the  men  to  beat  you  from  your  own  ranks.  I 
tell  you."  She  had  unconsciously  repeated  the  end  of 
her  sentence  like  Creegan.    "There  are  such  things  as 


264  DEMOCRACY 

'private  braves.'  Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  of  the  braves 
in  the  Colorado  Mine  Strike?** 

"Ah,  don't  be  tellin*  us  those  old  wives*  tales.  That 
is  old  history.  This  is  the  strike  of  to-day — ^not  of 
yesterday.  We  are  after  a  hell  of  a  war  I  tell  you. 
Do  ye  think  labour  is  the  same  to-day?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  To-day  as  yesterday,"  said  the  girl 
turning  to  go.    She  stopped  at  the  door. 

"But  I  tell  you,  you  will  meet  death  in  the  noonday. 
You  will  fall,  the  life  shot  out  of  you. 

"I  tell  you — ^you  two  who  will  not  listen  to  me  be- 
cause I  am  a  woman — I  tell  you.  You  have  appealed 
to  the  sword.    You  will  fall  by  the  sword." 

The  little  figure  had  passed  out  through  the  door, 
leaving  Destin  and  Creegan  staring  at  each  other. 

"She's  cracked,  Denis  boy,  she's  cracked  I  tell  you." 

Creegan  had  broken  into  a  high  hard  laugh. 


XIX 

THE    CITY    THAT    ROSE    IN    THE    NIGHT 

The  strike,  silent,  sure,  had  been  on  for  three  weeks. 
Industry  was  touched  as  though  by  the  finger  of  fate. 
The  nerves  of  commerce  were  paralysed.  "A  paralytic 
stroke,  Denis.  A  stroke!'*  Creegan,  high,  assured, 
threw  the  words  at  his  friend,  as  he  came  in  one  morn- 
ing to  his  work. 

From  underneath  came  the  marching  and  counter- 
marching of  men  with  hoarse  cries  of  command. 
"Listen  to  'em,  Denis.  It  does  your  heart  good. 
Listen  to  'em  drilling.  If  the  Government  wants  peace, 
we'll  fight  them  that  way.  If  they  want  war — ^by  the 
holy  Cromwell !  they  shall  have  war.    Listen  to  them." 

The  high  clear  voice  of  the  officer  in  command  came 
through  the  door  of  the  room.  It  was  from  the  son 
of  a  General  in  the  English  Army,  himself  a  V.C.,  who 
had  won  his  honours  on  the  battlefield  and  who  had, 
in  the  challenge  of  the  new  democracy,  thrown  over 
allegiance  to  friends,  to  church,  and,  deepest  of  all,  to 
class.  "By  the  right  there!  Form  fours!  Quick 
march !"    The  words  came  in  a  high  staccato. 

Creegan's  Invincibles. 

"And  we've  better  than  those  Denis.  We  have  the 
finished  article — the  men  from,  the  Navvies'  Brigade 
who  were  drilled  in  the  Great  War. 

265 


266  DEMOCRACY 

"Let  lis  go  out  into  the  streets,  Denis,  and  talk 
things  over,"  said  Creegan,  lighting  a  cheroot  at  the 
end  of  the  stump  in  his  hand.  "We'll  have  a  walk  in 
the  Victoria  Park." 

They  went  out  into  the  silent  streets.  "General" 
Strike  held  the  city  in  his  grip.  As  they  passed  along, 
Creegan  was  greeted  by  the  women  and  children,  the 
little  ones  running  to  catch  his  legs.  It  was  strange 
to  see  how  the  man  changed  as  he  felt  the  clutch  of 
tiny  hands.  He  bent  down,  picked  them  up,  taking  a 
child  on  each  shoulder — and  so  they  passed  on  their 
way  in  triumph  to  the  greetings  of  hard-faced  navvies, 
of  dockers,  and  to  the  less  responsive  smiles  of  the 
women,  who,  hunger-hollowed,  crowded  the  doorways. 

He  set  his  load  down  gently  as  they  came  to  the 
park,  and  they  walked  through  the  gates.  But  where 
were  the  children  who  usually  dotted  the  grassy 
spaces?  The  park  was  empty.  Creegan  stood  stock 
still  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hands.  "Be  Jasus !  they've  started,"  he  said  under 
his  breath. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  bell  tents  paralleled 
the  grass.  Wherever  the  eye  turned  were  tripods  of 
arms,  the  smoke  of  fires,  and  the  movement  of  khaki- 
clad  figures — each  moving  surely — purposeful. 

A  town  had  risen  in  the  night. 

Denis  looked,  and  as  he  did,  his  heart  leaped  and 
failed  him.  For  a  moment  the  white  tents  limned 
themselves  on  the  green  grass  and  then  lost  themselves 
in  a  mist. 

He  was  not  a  coward,  but  this  orderly  certain  array 


THE  CITY  THAT  ROSE  IN  THE  NIGHT  267 

presaged  the  beginning  of  the  end.  It  was  Trafalgar 
Square  once  again.  Society  was  not  going  to  take  the 
strike  lying  down;  it  was  not  coming  to  the  men  cap 
in  hand  asking  for  settlement  by  arbitration.  This  was 
its  reply. 

Some  soldiers  passed,  scarcely  glancing  at  Destin 
and  Creegan.  Then  one  of  them  checked  himself  and 
said  something  to  his  companions.  They  turned  tlieir 
heads  towards  Creegan  and  Destin  and.  laughed.  There 
was  contempt  in  that  laugh,  the  contempt  of  the  dis- 
ciplined man  for  the  undisciplined.  Yet  the  men  were 
of  the  working  class.  An  officer,  his  smart,  leathered 
legs  shining  in  the  morning  sun,  walked  indifferent 
past,  the  men  springing  to  the  salute.  Nobody  inter- 
fered with  them  as  they  moved  along  the  paths.  So- 
ciety did  not  trouble  about  them  .  .  .  yet. 

'Tfs  come,  Brian,"  said  Destin  at  last. 

"Yes,  thank  God!  it's  come.  If  they  want  blood 
they  shall  have  blood."  The  voice  was  confident,  yet, 
for  one  moment,  Destin.  could  have  been  sure  he  saw 
a  shadow  hanging  there  over  the  clear,  certain  eyes. 
Creegan  wheeled.  They  walked  out  of  the  path  back 
to  Fraternity  Hall,  watching  on  th.e  road  a  company 
of  Guardsmen,  automatic  figures,  moving  to  the  word 
of  comrnand  on  the  roadway. 

Inside  they  heard  the  voice — "By  the  right  there! 
Form  fours!    Quick  march i" 

Creegan's  eye  glistened  as  they  went  down  to  the 
flagged  cellar  beneath  the  hall,  which  they  were  using 
as  a  drill  room.  Before  them  were  a  couple  of  hundred 
corduroyed  men,  of  all  sizes,  moving  uncertainly  to  the 


268  DEMOCRACY 

word  of  command  coming  from  a  tall,  soldierly,  clean- 
faced  young  man,  who,  as  they  entered,  gave  the  word 
--"Ready!    Present!" 

The  ranks  before  him  raised  the  staves  they  carried 
instead  of  guns,  raggedly. 

"This  is  the  real  thing  V*  said  Creegan. 

A  messenger  ran  down  the  steps  into  the  cellar. 
"The  railway  stations  are  full  of  soldiers,"  he  said, 
breathlessly — "they've  been  sleeping  in  the  waiting 
rooms  all  night.  They  wouldn't  let  me  go  down  the 
slope  to  the  Great  North- Western.'* 

The  telephone  rang  upstairs.  Creegan  ran  up  the 
steps  into  his  room,  followed  by  Destin.  He  took  up 
the  receiver,  listening,  his  eye  defiant,  as  though  he 
were  challenging  some  invisible  foe.  .  .  .  "Well, 
anyhow,  they  can't  shoot  us  down  in  cold  blood  for 
doing  nothing — ^but  if  they  want  war  they  can  have  it. 

"Here  Destin — ^they've  put  the  soldiers  guarding  the 
British  Museum  and  Westminster  Abbey — ^as  if  we 
wanted  to  hurt  their  dirty  tabernacles." 

Destin  took  a  sudden  resolve. 

"Lister^,  Brian,"  he  said,  a  new  note  in  his  voice. 
"Listen  to  me.  Do  3nou  know  what  all  this  means?" 
The  other  read  the  message  in  his  face. 

"What,  are  you  going  to  turn  white-livered?  Has 
the  girl  that  came  here  the  other  day  turned  your  heart 
to  water — she  that  couldn't  turn  mine?"  He  spat 
contemptuously  into  the  empty  grate. 

"No,  but  the  lives  of  these  men  rest  on  your  shoul- 
ders and  mine.  We've  got  to  be  careful,  desperately 
careful.    We  are  walking  on  a  tight  rope  a  thousand 


THE  CITY  THAT  ROSE  IN  THE  NIGHT  269 

feet  high  with  a  noose  around  our  necks:  a  slip  and 
we  are  finished." 

"Well,  what  is  your  life  or  mine  to  the  Cause?" 
asked  Creegan. 

"You  must  listen,  Creegan."  The  voice  was  hard 
now,  so  hard  that  Creegan  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
"If  we  fling  our  people  against  the  soldiers,  it  is  the 
end  of  us,  of  the  strike,  of  the  people's  cause.  This 
strike  will  go  down  in  bloody,  helpless,  murder.  Do 
you  hear?"  He  was  speaking  to  Creegan  as  though  he 
were  a  little  child. 

"The  girl  was  right.  TTes,  I  don't  like  her  and  I 
don't  agree  with  her,  but  she  was  right.  We're  up 
against  something  stronger  than  we.  If  we  can  carry 
through  the  strike  peacefully,  well  and  good.  But  I 
am  thinking  they  won't  let  us.  And  how  are  we  going 
to  hold  our  fellow^  back?" 

From  underneath  came  the  staccato — "By  the  right 
there ! — Hold  up  your  heads!"  and  the  confused  stamp- 
ing of  hobnails  on  the  stone  floor. 

"'Hold  them  back/  Who's  going  to  hold  them 
back?  We  are  going  to  launch  them  at  the  soldiers — 
at  the  Governmenjt — at  Society.  I,  Brian  Creegan,  say 
so,  and  God  help  you  or  any  man  that  tries  to  spoke 
our  wheels  now." 

But  Destin  did  not  blench. 

"Call  them  off,  Brian,"  he  said  quietly.  "Call  them 
off.    The  girl  was  right." 

"Blast  the  girl  and  you  too!"  Creegan's  face  was 
slowly  empurpling.  "  'Call  them  off.*  No — ^not  if  I 
rain  blood  over  England.    'Call  them  off.'    No — ^not  if 


270  DEMOCRACY 

they  shoot  us  all  down  where  we  stand.  Better  be  dead 
and  free  than  living  and  slaves."  He  added  slowly, 
pausing  between  each  word: 

"Never !  so — help — me — God !" 

Destin  looked  at  him.  He  knew  in  that  moment  he 
was  facing  something  that  could  not  be  changed — ^like 
so  many  other  things.  He  put  on  his  hat,  suddenly 
resolved,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 


XX 

J  POWER 

What  he  had  set  his  mind  to  do  was  distasteful,  but 
there  was  no  other  way.  He  knew  the  girl  he  was  in 
search  of  generally  did  her  writing  in  the  reading  room 
of  the  Independent  Socialists,  and  there  he  found  her, 
the  little  head  with  the  square-cut  dark  hair  now  bend- 
ing earnestly  over  the  manuscript  before  her. 

She  felt  him  come  in,  for  she  turned  round  sharply. 
Destin,  in  his  own  direct  way  came  to  the  point. 

"Listen.  IVe  come  to  make  an  appeal  to  you. 
Creegan  is  mad.  He  believes  he  is  Almighty  God  and 
he  will  plunge  London  and  perhaps  England  into  a 
blood-bath  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours  unless 
you  can  stop  him." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  dead  set  on  this  strike.  That  means  he  is  dead 
set  on  murder — on  massacre  without  a  chance  of  retali- 
ation. I  cannot  see  those  fellows  down  there,  who 
would  follow  him  into  the  pit,  go  like  sheep  to  the 
slaughter — ^to  their  deaths  before  the  soldiers.  It  is 
too  horrible.  And  Creegan  will  lose  his  life  too."  He 
looked  at  the  girl  narrowly. 

"Please  be  plainer,"  she  said  shortly. 

"Well,  you  know  as  well  as  I  that  Brian  loves  you 
271 


272  DEMOCRACY 

better  than  anything  else — except,  perhaps,  the  move- 
ment. For  the  movement  is  his  first  love,  his  wife  and 
children.  But  you  are  the  only  living  being  with  any 
sort  of  power  over  him.  I  have  seen  him  look  at 
you — ^mutter  about  you — ^and  he  loves  you  to  the  last 
hair  of  your  head." 

He  took  a  kind  of  savage  pleasure  in  saying  this 
over  and  over  again.  "He  loves  you  to  the  last  hair 
of  your  head." 

The  girl  had  taken  a  newer  pallor. 

"So  you  want  me  to  use  his  love,  or  whatever  you 
call  it,  for  me  to  take  him  from  what  he  considers  his 
duty,"  she  said,  a  strain  of  bitterness  creeping  under 
her  voice. 

"I  want  you  to  save  him  from  himself — ^and  with 
him  the  lives  of  many  others.  It  will  be  a  holocaust,  I 
tell  you.  Have  you  seen  the  soldiers  in  the  park? 
They  are  ready  to  the  last  cartridge." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  all  about  the  soldiers.  I  know  all 
about  everything — it  is  my  business,"  she  said  simply. 
She  looked  then,  as  always,  irritatingly  sure  and 
confident. 

"Then  you  will  go  to  him  ?"  asked  Destin. 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the  girl  with 
heat.  "Do  you  think  Fm  going  to  drag  myself  in  the 
dust  before  Brian  Creegan — ^to  be  spurned — and  for 
nothing?"  The  girl's  love  for  the  man  and  the  pride 
behind,  seemed  to  show  itself  in  every  syllable.  But 
once  he  had  thought  she  did  not  love  him.  Yet  this 
made  her  conduct  the  more  incomprehensible. 

"So  you  put  your  dirty  pride  before  the  lives  of  men. 


POWER  273 

women,  and  children — ^yes — even  before  the  life  of  the 
man  you  love  ?" 

"How  dare  you  say  that?"  The  girl  had  come  close 
to  him,  whispering  the  words  low  in  his  face.  Destin 
stepped  back  as  he  felt  the  hot  breath. 

"How  dare  you  say  that?"  she  repeated. 

"  *Dare.'  *Dare,'  "  he  said.  "I  dare  anything — ^and 
you  know  it's  true." 

The  girl  did  not  speak.  "You  must  go  to  him  now," 
he  said,  his  angry  courage  coming  to  him  in  the  face 
of  the  woman  before  him. 

"  'Must!'    I  will  not.    I  have  finished." 

The  girl  had  turned  her  back  on  him  and  was  read- 
ing her  manuscript  as  though  he  were  not  there.  The 
sight  of  the  little  bare  neck  where  the  ivory  of  the  skin, 
softly  flushed,  ran  downwards  into  the  shallow  V  of 
the  green  frieze  dress,  caused  something  to  snap  in 
his  brain. 

"You  won't.  You  won't.  .  .  .  Listen  ...  I  know 
all  about  you.  Do  you  hear?  I  know  who  Taddy 
Mac'  is.  Do  you  hear?"  He  stood  back  waiting  the 
result  of  his  thrust. 

"Do  you  hear  me?  I  know  who  'Paddy  Mac*  is. 
I  know  who  the  traitress  is  that  used  the  love  of  a  good 
man  to  get  her  dirty  information  with  which  to  stab 
him  in  the  back  and  to  stab  the  movement  he  repre- 
sents. .  .  .  You  are  the  traitress  that  wrote  those 
articles  in  the  Meteor." 

"Of  course  I  wrote  the  articles  and  would  write  them 
again.  You  say  I  love  Creegan.  If  I  loved  him  better 
than  life  I'd  criticise  him — only  because  I  loved  him. 


274  DEMOCRACY 

And  you,  who  know  so  little  about  me,  know  that.  I 
have  never  pretended  to  be  a  Syndicalist.  And  now 
perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  secrets  I  have  disclosed." 
The  girl  was  perfectly  cool. 

Well,  what  secrets  had  she  disclosed?  And  it  was 
true.  He  knew  this  girl.  There  was  a  contrary  devil 
in  her — he  had  it  in  himself — which  would  make  her 
criticise  her  own  lover  just  because  he  was  her  lover. 

He  searched  vainly  for  the  intensity  of  his  resent- 
ment— the  criticism  was  brutal — ^but  was  it?  He  him- 
self had  often  been  a*  brutal  critic  of  the  politicals — it 
was  the  word  they  always*  applied  to  him.  .  .  .  But 
it  was  unfair.    Yes,  that  was  the  word,  it  was  "unfair." 

These  things  ran  tumultuous  through  his  brain.  The 
girl  was  smiling  at  him — a  little  dose  smile.  It  un- 
nerved him.    His  control  went. 

"If  you  don't  agree  at  once  to  go  and  stop  Creegan, 
ril  tell  him  who  you  are."  He  was  speaking  quietly 
enough  now. 

The  girl's  face  showed  no  signs  of  emotion.  She 
was  putting  her  writing  materials  carefully  into  a  long 
leather  portfolio.  Her  little  round  helmet  straw  she 
put  on  her  head.    She  had  picked  up  her  gloves. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  Brian  Creegan  now  that  I  am 
'Paddy  Mac'  That's  all."  -She  walked  out  of  the 
room  leaving  him  staring  at  the  closed  door. 

He  hung  in  the  wind  a  few  moments,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  his  fiancee  walked  in.  "They  told  me  at 
the  Hall,  Denis,  that  you  were  coming  here,  where  they 
could  telephone  you  if  you  were  wanted.    I  felt  I  had 


POWER  275 

to  come  along  at  once  to  talk  over  one  or  two  things 
with  you." 

Destin,  still  dazed,  looked  at  her.  "What  do  you 
want  to  talk  about?"  he  said,  a  little  ungraciously. 

"Now,  my  dear  boy  mustn't  be  like  that,"  she  said, 
passing  a  little  firm  arm  through  his,  and  looking 
pleadingly  into  his  face.  She  did  not  see  the  hard  look 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  have  come,  Denis,  to  save  your  life/'  she  began 
mysteriously. 

"To  save  my  life  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  am  a  girl  at  heart  you  know — I  can  be  hard,  but 
I  have  my  soft  moments — ^and  I  am  frightened." 

"What  has  frightened  you?" 

"I  am  frightened  of  what  is  coming.  Oh !  listen  to 
me,  Denis."  She  had  clasped  his  arm  convulsively  to 
her  breast.  "If  Creegan  sends  the  strikers  into  the 
street,  the  soldiers  will  kill  them.  And  you  can't  turn 
Brian  Creegan." 

"Why  don't  you  try?"  he  asked,  bitterly. 

"I  ?  Oh !  Denis,  you  know  Creegan  hates  me.  Now 
he  is  mad — is  he  not?  And  you  are  not  obliged  to 
follow  a  madman.  Everything  has  changed  in  the  last 
forty-eight  hours.  The  streets  are  full  of  police  and 
soldiers  and  they  mean  trouble.  Don't  you  see  how 
it  is?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  roughly,  "speak 
plainly  if  you  want  me  to  imder stand." 

"Well,  Denis,  I  want  you  to  protest  against  this  use- 
less bloodshed.  I  ...  I  want  you  to  stand  out  from  it 
all.    I'hey  will  shoot  you,  Denis — ^they  will  shoot  you" 


276  DEMOCRACY 

— the  voice  was  trembling — "or  they  will  put  away  my 
beautiful,  strong  Denis  for  ten  years — ^perhaps  for 
life." 

"You  want  me  to  desert  the  men  in  the  hour  of  their 
need?" 

"No,  not  that.  I  want  you  to  protest.  Once  I  could 
have  faced  your  going  through.'with  it,  but  not  now. 
You  have  turned  me  into  a  woman."  The  girl  was 
clinging  to  him,  frightened,  her  beautiful  eyes  tear- 
drenched. 

But  this  emotion  roused  the  contrary  spirit  in  her 
fiance.  He  loosened  her  hold  on  his  arm  and  said 
quietly: 

"Make  your  mind  easy.  I  am  not  going  to  fall  in 
the  street  shot  like  a  dog.  I  have  protested,  and  what 
is  more,  I  have  left  the  Syndicalists  and  joined  the 
politicals.  I  am  a  member  of  McGraw's  wing 
of  the  National  Workers'  Party — the  Independent 
Socialists." 

"Oh !  Denis,  is  that  true  ?"  Her  hands  were  clasped 
in  thankfulness.  "I  am  delighted."  A  look  of  pain 
passed  across  his  face. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  it  is  too  easy,"  he  said  iron- 
ically. "I  have  turned  my  back  on  the  best  man  in 
the  world  and  on  the  movement  in  which  I  fleshed  my 
virgin  lance.  I  have  become  what  people  will  call  a 
turncoat.  I  have  gone  over  to  Creegan's  nearest 
enemies." 

"But,  Denis — Syndicalism  is  not  what  it  was.  Dam- 
ascene made  it  all  seem  so  different  when  he  first  ex- 
plained it.     Now  that  it  comes  to  the  actual  brutal 


POWER  277 

struggle,  it  is  not  the  same  thing.  And  Denis,"  she 
added  as  an  afterthought,  "y^^  ^^^  ^^  ^^  M.F. 
now." 

Destin's  heart  leaped  in  spite  of  himself.  He  had 
not  thought  of  that.  The  appeal  to  Parliament — the 
great  sounding  board  of  Westminster — ^the  megaphone 
voice — the  chance  to  make  himself  heard — all  these 
things  came  sweetly  to  him,  especially  as  what  he  had 
done  he  had  done  conscientiously.    It  meant  Power. 

And  it  was  natural  after  all  that  his  fiancee  should 
wish  him  to  have  a  bigger  arena  for  his  talents.  It  was 
a  woman's  way. 

He  put  it  from  him  with- an  effort.  He  had  not  done 
this,  thing  for  the  flesh-pots  of  Parliament. 

But  the  girl  before  him  had  seen  the  effect  of  her 
words.  "Now  they  will  have  to  listen,"  she  said.  "No 
more  reports  in  little  tin  trumpets  like  the  Bugler,  but 
in  the  great  dailies.  Denis,  you 'were  marked  for  big 
things.  I  saw  it  the  first  day  I  met  you  at  Chilling- 
ton  House,    The  Duchess  saw  it. 

"And  now,  dear,  I  am  going  to  be  very  hard  and 
businesslike."  She  had  linked  herself  to  him  again. 
"I  am  going  to  be  unmaidenly  or  whatever  the  Philis- 
tines call  it.  ...  I  want  you  to  marry  me  soon.  Every- 
thing goes  so  well  with  you,  and  now  will  go  better. 
I  want  you  to  be  my  husband  soon." 

There  was  infinite  seduction  in  the  voice  of  the 
young  girl.  The  warm-cool  touch  of  her  arm  that 
came  to  him  through  the  muslin  of  her  dress — ^the 
aroma  that  freed  itself  from  her  body — ^all  weakened 
him. 


278  DEMOCRACY 


"T»1 


T\\  marry  you  when  you  like,"  he  said;  "next 
month  if  you  will." 

It  was  one  of  his  rare  bursts  of  emotion.  All  these 
things  with  Vesta  Craven  were  called  up  in  bursts  of 
emotion. 

The  girl  placed  her  little  red  lips  full  on  his.  It  was 
the  first  display  of  passion  he  had  ever  seen  in  her. 
"It  is  a  bargain,"  she  said.  "Now  let  us  go  to  Damas- 
cene's trial." 


XXI 

damascene's  last  appearance  on  any  stage 

Damascene  was  to  be  tried  that  morning.  The  Octo- 
pus Scandal  had  drawn  in  its  tentacles  and  with  them 
the  net  of  iniquity  was  full. 

When  they  passed  into  the  courts,  the  atmosphere 
was  stifling  with  the  sweat  of  bodies,  mingled  with  the 
perfumes  that  streamed  from  the  clothes  of  the  society 
women  who  sat  there  sunning  themselves  before  the 
fires  of  sin.  The  Duchess  of  Chillington,  her  great 
dusky  fez  crowned  by  a  hat  on  which  perched  with 
outstretched  wings  a  white  dove,  dominated  the  pro- 
ceedings with  a  large  fan  of  black  ostrich  feathers. 

As  they  entered  the  court  at  the  tail  of  the  queue 
where  they  had  stood  ,f or  an  hour,  the  judge  was  re- 
questing that  all  women  should  leave  the  court.  "I  do 
not  insist  that  they  shall  do  so,  but  all  ladies,  I  am  sure, 
will,"  he  added,  almost  coyly.  "As  we  near  the  end 
of  the  case,  the  details  are  most  unsavory." 

Evidently  there  were  no  females  of  the  type  speci- 
fied, as  not  a  woman  stirred.  Vesta  Craven  snorted 
as  she  clung  to  Destin's  arm — "Just  think  of  that  old 
fuzz-wuzz  trying  to  treat  women  as  delicate  pets  who 
must  not  have  their  little  ears  contaminated,  whilst  the 
rude  male  brutes  can  wallow  in  it."  She  rubbed  one 
little  pink  ear  absently. 

279 


280  DEMOCRACY 

Vesta  Craven  had  always  a  fine  contempt  for  the 
conventions. 

It  had  been  rumoured  that  Damascene  would  not 
surrender  to  his  bail,  but  that  he  would  fly  the  country, 
and  it  was  even  ^supposed  that  in  order  to  save  drag- 
ging in  the  mire  some  of  the  greatest  names  in  Eng- 
land, this  was  what  the  authorities  hoped. 

At  any  rate,  if  that  were  so,  they  were  disappointed, 
though  not  the  public,  who  watched  the  familiar  figure, 
with  the  scarlet  cloak,  despite  the  intolerable  closeness 
of  the  court,  falling  behind  the  perfect-fitting  clothes 
—the  monocle  set  squarely  in  the  eye,  taking  in  every- 
body there,  and  the  face,  lineless  and  fresh,  exchanging 
a  nod  with  one  or  two  people,  ifowever,  it  was  no- 
ticeable that  most  of  the  audience  who  knew  Damas- 
cene were  careful  to  avert  their  gaze  when  he  turned 
the  lighthouse  of  his  eye.  The  Duchess  of  Chillington, 
however,  with  the  sang  froid  she  had  made  her  own, 
deliberately  returned  the  bow,  to  the  disgust  of  her 
peers.  It  was  the  Duchess's  boast  that  she  "never  went 
back  on  a  pal." 

Courcy  was  there,  propping  his  lathy  form  against 
a  bench,  whilst  scattered  through  the  crowd,  purring 
their  acknowledgments,  were  the  young  men  Destin 
had  already  seen  at  the  Hampstead  flat  and  in  the  Vic- 
toria Hall  meeting.  They  at  least  were  not  ashamed  of 
their  hero.  There  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  secret  under- 
standing— superior,  comfortable,  and  vain-glorious — 
between  them  and  the  man  in  the  dock,  whose  hair, 
Destin  noticed  for  the  first  time,  was  streaked  with 
grey. 


DAMASCENE'S  LAST  APPEARANCE     281 

"Damascene  might  have  made  his  'hair  up/*  mur- 
mured one  of  the  young  men  near  them,  a  man  with 
prominent  eyes  and  slavering,  sweet  mouth.  "It  will 
only  give  the  barbarians  occasion  to  scoff,  and  it  is  so 
dreadfully  eccentric." 

As  the  case  went  on  to  its  close,  the  indictment  'drew 
its  slimy  length  around  the  man  in  the  dock.  But 
Damascene  smiled  imperturbably,  returning  a  suave 
and  always  good-humoured  denial  to  everything;  and, 
when  opportunity  offered,  running  off  into  little  discur- 
sions  upon  art  with  the  cross-examining  counsel,  the 
ignorance  of  whom  he  seemed  to  take  a  malicious  de- 
light in  exposing. 

"I  have  no  God  but  art,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing 
but  art.  Art  is  life — the  absence  of  art  is  death — 
something,  my  lord,  I  fear  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury 
will  not  easily  understand." 

It  was  impossible  to  dislike  the  man — ^he  was  resist- 
less. He  established  a  sort  of  art-fellowship  with 
friend  and  foe — an  understanding  which  was  delicately 
flattering.  But  still,  those  coils  wound  themselves 
closely,  ever  more  closely,  around  him.  The  men  of 
his  own  class  might  smile  with  him — might  admit  him 
into  the  camaraderie  of  class — ^but  they  were  ruthless 
as  boa  constrictors,  and  the  kneading  before  the  final 
deglutition  went  on. 

The  crowd,  and  especially  the  fashionable  portion  of 
it,  appraised  the  man  in  the  dock  as  the  torturer 
appraises  the  victim.  The'y  were  driven  by  a  horrid 
curiosity  to  see  whether  he  was  "game" — as  a  sport- 
ing gentleman  in  a  pair  of  ballooned  riding  breeches, 


282  DEMOCRACY 

standing  near  Destin,  expressed  it.  But  the  man  in  the 
dock  gave  no  sign,  save  that  occasionally  with  a  hand- 
kerchief of  magenta  silk  he  wiped  away  some  invisible 
moisture  from  his  forehead. 

Now,  however,  the  heat  of  the  place  was  telling  on 
him.  The  eyebrows  sagged — the  cheeks  patched  them- 
selves— ^until  little  by  little  the  man  began  to  sink 
together.  But  still  through  the  grimace  into  which  his 
face  had  turned,  he  smiled.  Drawn  out  to  the  minutest 
details,  he  returned  constant  denial  backed  by  witticism 
and  counter.  But  as  the  shadows  of  the  afternoon 
drew  down,  the  man  in  the  dock  changed.  He  was 
becoming  an  old  man. 

The  jury  retired.  The  place  was  breathless.  Dam- 
ascene was  taken  out  of  the  dock  to  await  the  verdict. 
The  minutes  dragged  themselves.  There  was  a  move- 
ment, and  the  twelve  honest  citizens,  expressionless, 
presumably  shocked  out  of  all  consciousness,  came 
back.  The  judge  took  up  his  place,  and  Damascene 
was  brought  into  the  dock — but  a  changed  Damascene, 
freshly  manicured  and  polished.  The  cheeks  firm  once 
more — the  eyes  black  and  sparkling.  The  man  had 
been  born  again. 

The  judge  had  no  need  to  ask  the  question.  Every- 
one saw  "Guilty"  on  the  faces  of  the  twelve  men. 
Damascene  saw  it  and  placed  two  plump  white  hands 
on  the  dock  rail,  a  great  emerald  on  the  first  finger  of 
the  left  hand  shining  greenly  in  the  half-lights. 

"After  a  fair  and  full  trial,"  the  judge  began  senten- 
tiously,  "you  have  been  found  guilty,  Sydney  Dama- 
scene, of  the  most  unnatural  of  crimes."    The  people 


DAMASCENE'S  LAST  APPEARANCE     283 

were  all  looking  one  way — ^not  at  the  judge  but  at  the 
man. 

After  a  homily,  edifying  and  horror-stricken,  justice 
concluded — "I  can  only  hope  that  the  mass  of  mis- 
guided people  who  call  themselves  Syndicalists — allied, 
I  believe,  to  the  Socialists — ^are  not  as  a  body  tainted 
with  the  germs  of  a  vice,  which  springs  as  inevitably 
from  its  culture-bed  of  political  and  mental  distortion 
as  the  germs  of  disease  spring  from  ill-regulated  and 
ill-ordered  houses.  It  is  the  sentence  of  the  Court  that 
you  be  confined  for  the  term  of  twenty  years." 

"Hahet!  Hahet!"  Destin  saw  it  in  every  face 
there. 

How  would  he  take  it  ?  The  face  was  smiling — im- 
perturbable— as  ever.  The  voice  was  asking  permis- 
sion to  speak,  which  was  given. 

"I  congratulate  a  sapient  jury  upon  their  judgment 
of  a  crime  of  which  doubtless  they  have  an  extensive 
and  peculiar  knowledge.  My  crime,  my  lord,  is  the 
only  crime  that  counts  in  England — the  crime  of  being 
found  out.  If  you  care  to  make  up  a  register  of  what 
you  call  'unnatural  vice,'  you  will  find  written  in  it 
some  of  the  great  names  of  the  well-regulated  and  well- 
ordered  Society  which  I  have  outraged — perhaps  even 
of  your  own  noble  profession.  And  now  that  I  have 
been  found  out,  I  am  happy  to  confess  not  only  to  what 
you  call  my  guilt,  but  my  blasphemous  belief  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  vice  and  virtue — good  and  evil. 
The  only  vice  is  the  vice  of  not  agreeing  with  your 
fellows — the  only  virtue  that  of  following  your  in- 
clinations.   Your  inclination  and  that  of  your  fellows 


284  DEMOCRACY 

turns  to  the  unnatural  things  of  the  licensed  harlotage 
which  you  call  'marriage* — mine — to  other  things 
which  you  are  pleased  to  call  'unnatural/ 

"I  am  sure  the  public  who  have  been  fortunate 
enough  to  obtain  seats  for  this  performance  will  be 
gratified  at  the  finale,  as  this,  my  lord,  is  my  last  ap- 
pearance on  any  stage." 

He  passed  his  hand  quickly  over  his  lips,  placing 
something  in  his  mouth,  smiled,  and  collapsed  like  a 
balloon  that  has  been  pricked.  Two  warders  ran  for- 
ward, but  it  was  too  late. 

It  was,  as  he  had  said,  Sydney  Damascene's  "last 
appearance  on  any  stage." 


XXII 

THE  BLINDED  GIANT 

Despite  the  time,  heavy  with  event,  Denis  Destin  was 
forced  to  work  day  and  night  on  the  proofs  of  his  book 
"The  New  Revolution,"  which,  in  view  of  his  fiUing 
the  eye  of  the  public  at  the  moment,  was  being  hurried 
forward.  For  even  so  conservative  a  house  as  Mc- 
Clinton's  did  not  disdain  the  sweet  uses  of  advertise- 
ment. 

What  made  the  strain  all  the  greater  was  the  fact 
that  he  had  to  revise  much  of  the  latter  stages  of  his 
book  in  view  of  his — ^not  "change"  of  view,  but  of  his 
realisation  of  the  change  that  had  been  going  on  inside 
him  for  many  months. 

The  book  was  ambitious.  It  was  a  retrospect  of  the 
labour  forces  throughout  Europe  within  the  immediate 
past,  with  a  forecast  of  the  future,  and  particularly  a 
projection  of  those  giant  problems  now  dimly  material- 
ising on  the  screen  of  time — ^problems  of  which  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  European  democracies  were  almost 
entirely  ignorant  and  which  their  leaders,  generally, 
lacked  the  imaginative  power  to  grasp. 

Now  the  advance  copies  had  been  sent  out  for  re- 
view, and  morning  after  morning,  he  scanned  the 
columns  with  the  eagerness  of  those  early  days  when 
he  had  drawn  first  blood.    Seasoned  as  he  was  by  now 

285 


2S6  DEMOCRACY 

to  praise  or  blame — this  was  something  different — 
something  to  make  his  heart  beat  faster. 

The  capitalist  press,  to  his  surprise,  was,  generally 
speaking,  if  not  enthusiastic,  at  least  recognisant.  The 
old  Olympian  even  gave  him  a  quarter  column  all 
to  himself,  for,  as  always,  anything  in  the  nature  of 
expert  work  appealed  to  it,  and  it  even  "recommended" 
its  readers  "to  buy  a  copy  to  put  on  their  bookshelves 
for  reference,  in  these  days  when  so  much  that  is 
superficial  or  deliberately  misleading  is  written  about 
the  Labour  movement."  The  Nonconformist  Liberal 
dailies  were  not  exactly  hostile,  but  patronising,  with  a 
sort  of  conventicle  snuffle  about  some  of  their  criti- 
cisms. 

The  Meteor  had  apparently  ignored  him,  which 
depressed,  for  he  knew  that  the  selling  of  his  book 
largely  hung  on  the  Meteor  with  its  "largest  circula- 
tion." 

With  more  assurance  he  turned  to  the  Socialist 
papers.  Here  for  the  first  time,  he  met  the  blast  of 
adversity.  The  Tocsin,  as  a  red-hot  Syndicalist  organ, 
poured  out  the  vials  of  its  wrath  upon  "the  windy 
theories  of  the  politician,"  for  the  Tocsin  knew  by  now 
of  his  change.  It  even  said — "Ambitious  men  of  the 
Destin  type,  for  we  will  not  pretend  not  to  know  the 
antecedents  of  the  author  of  The  New  Revolution,* 
are  the  curse  of  the  revolutionary  movement  and  in- 
variably stray  into  the  pastures  of  the  politician  where 
the  lush-grass  grows  and  where  they  browse,  until,  fat 
and  stodgy,  they  rise  to  the  'Right  Honourables'  or 
something  of  the  sort." 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  287 

The  political-labourist  papers  were  on  the  other  hand 
heavily  indifferent  to  that  part  of  his  book  which 
dealt  with  the  growing  power  of  Syndicalism  amongst 
the  Latin  races,  and  turned  with  avidity  to  the  part 
dealing  with  the  advance  by  political  action.  The 
powerful  analysis  of  psychology  in  relation  to  tactic, 
which  to  Destin  was  the  heart  of  his  book,  they  simply 
ignored,  either  not  understanding  or  not  caring  to 
understand.  The  problems  of  the  future  were,  with 
the  exception  of  the  Leader,  the  organ  of  the  Inde- 
pendent Socialists,  and  the  Trumpet,  the  organ  of  the 
unattached,  relegated  to  the  upper  air,  to  the  land  of 
"Castles  in  Spain."  Socialism  was  too  much  occupied 
with  the  immediate  to  trouble  about  the  abstract.  Let 
the  future  take  care  of  itself. 

A  few  days  later,  as  he  opened  the  Meteor  to  see 
about  the  strike,  on  the  fourth  page — ^the  famous 
Meteor  fourth  page — he  saw  in  big  letters — "Denis 
Destin  on  *The  New  Revolution,' "  with  underneath  a 
whole  two  columns  of  the  precious  Meteor  space,  en- 
thusiastic and  critical,  with  the  initials  of  the  editor 
himself  at  the  bottom. 

The  big  letters  of  his  name  was  his  franking  into 
the  ranks  of  men  who  mattered  in  the  opinion  of  the 
Meteor,  even  when  they  were  enemies.  As  always,  the 
Tory  organ  rose  above  party  when  it  came  to  the  real 
thing.  It  praised  and  blamed — it  scorched  and  soothed 
' — ^but  it  gave  the  book  the  advertisement  it  needed,  as 
was  shown  by  the  climbing  figures  of  the  sales  and  the 
satisfaction  of  his  publishers.  Men  and  women  ran  to 
buy  it  at  the  bookstalls,  and  were  usually  disappointed 


288  DEMOCRACY 

when  they  got  it.  Wildlsh  had  said  it  would  be 
"caviare  to  the  general,"  and  it  was.. 

It  was  the  atmosphere  of  revolution  in  which  they 
were  living  which  gave  the  book  its  final  impetus.  That 
atmosphere  which  made  itself  felt  in  the  parks  where 
there  grew  up  silently  in  the  night  the  mushroom-tents 
of  the  soldiers.  In  the  tramp-tramp  in  the  streets.  In 
the  silence  which  brooded  over  the  city  ways. 

Yet  the  authorities  made  no  sign.  Everything  was 
being  done  "decently  and  in  order." 

Only  in  Fraternity  Hall  was  there  the  feverish  ebb 
and  flow  of  life — with  ever  -coming  up  from  the  stone 
floor  of  the  cellar  the  high  clear  voice — "Form  fours ! 
By  the  right  there !"  But  now  there  came  the  metallic 
stamp  of  rifle-butt. 

The  sound  came,  to  him  as  he  walked  in  the  May 
evening  to  the  Hall,  there  to  face  the  special  meeting 
of  the  Syndicalist  Executive,  who  had  demanded  from 
him  an  explanation  of  his  change  of  politics  and  of  his 
resignation  from  the  Direct  Actionists,  which  was  now 
being  used  by  the  capitalist  papers  as  a  proof  of 
division  amongst  the  Syndicalists  themselves,  v^ho  by 
now  had  broken  away  from  the  Strike  Organisation 
Committee,  as  the  Trade  Union  leaders,  fearing  the 
movements  of  troops  and  the  rising  temper  of  the 
men,  were  trying  to  open  negotiations  with  the 
employers. 

"By  the  right  there !  Form  fours !  Quick  march !" 
and  the  tramp-tramp  of  nailed  feet,  but  now  not  so 
scattered — ^more  orderly. 

Creegan,  who  was  standing  near  the  window  of  the 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  289 

committee  room  on  the  first  floor,  where  the  executive 
met,  and  was  looking  out  into  the  afternoon  shadows, 
gave  him  the  slant  of  his  shoulder  as  he  came  in.  Now 
Destin  knew  for  the  first  time  the  meaningless  "cold 
shoulder."  In  these  days  of  awakening  he  was  always 
finding  new  meanings.  His  attention  was  minute — 
scrupulous. 

Every  man  there  had  been  his  friend  in  the  years 
that  were  now  gone  for  ever.  Little  Graney,.  who  in  a 
burst  of  temper  at  the  slowness  of  the  Parliamentary 
leaders  had  joined  the  Syndicalists  some  two  months 
before,  sat  in  the  corner  gnawing  his  moustache  and 
looking  hard  at  Creegan,  who  had  his  back  to  him. 
Red  Fitz,  ex-prizefighter,  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his 
warped  hands  a-straddle  on  his  knees  as  though  wait- 
ing for  the  call  of  "Time!"  to  do  battle,  the  light  blue 
eyes  peering  out  from,  under  their  red  bushy  arches  on 
either  side  of  the  twisted  flattened  nose.  Below  him, 
Mac,  the  dwarfish,  beady-eyed,  black-haired  tailor,  his 
tie  shouting  revolution,  his  toes  crooking  themselves 
around  the  legs  of  his  chair.  At  the  head  of  the  table 
a  little  coal-grocer,  who  in  the  day  served  his  customers 
like  any  petty  bourgeois,  but  at  night  mouthed  de- 
fiance to  the  stars  from  the  top  of  a  box  at  the  street 
comer,  who  was  now  being  elected  to  the  chair.  Stolid 
and  fiery — fair  and  dark  and  mottled.  These  were  the 
lights  of  London  Syndicalism — the  Junta  before  which 
he  was  to  make  good — if  he  were  able. 

"Now,  gents,  if  you're  ready,"  said  the  chairman, 
"I'll  ask  Mr.  Destin  to  explain  his  position.  It  is  not 
for  me  to  stand  between  you  and  the  .   .   .   er  .   .  . 


290  •  DEMOCRACY 

lecturer  ...  no,  I  mean  the  accused  ...  no,  I  don't 
mean  that — I  mean  the  object  of  the  meeting.  ..." 
He  stammered  and  broke  down. 

Destin  pushed  back  his  chair.  In  this  moment,  he 
was  shorn  of  his  strength — the  strength  which  came 
from  his  hatred  of  the  enemies  of  labour.  These  were 
his  comrades  of  yesterday — might  be  his  comrades  to- 
morrow. Hostile  he  felt  them,  but  the  anger  that 
sent  him  flaming  and  tempered  and  cold-hot  against  the 
capitalist  was  absent  here.  The  powerful  head,  with 
the  growth  of  wavy  hair  brushed  back,  with  the  grey 
hairs  now  showing  through  it,  was  set,  not  a  trifle  back 
as  at  the  Magog  meeting,  but  came  a  trifle  forward — a 
little  sunk.  These  were  the  men  he  loved — to  whom  he 
felt,  though  so  much  younger,  a  protector  who  wished 
to  save  them  from  themselves. 

But  Creegan,  who  had  now  taken  his  seat  next  the 
chairman,  was  staring  at  him  in  a  way  he  had  never 
seen  before.  It  came  to  him  like  a  douche — it  nerved 
him  for  the  ordeal.  He  began  to  speak,  scarcely 
hearing  his  own  voice,  until  the  machinery  of  tongue 
began  to  move. 

He  started — "Comrades — "  ("Not  comrades,"  mur- 
mured Creegan).  "I  said  'comrades*  " — Destin  looked 
round  defiantly — this  was  the  whip  he  needed.  No- 
body looked  at  him,  but  nobody  resented  it. 

"Comrades — there  is  no  man  here  who  can  say  I 
have  ever  been  anything  else  than  a  good  comrade — 
a  staunch  comrade."  ("Hear-hear!"  piped  Graney.) 
"When  I  entered  the  movement,  I  threw  in  my  lot  with 
the  Syndicalists  because,  like  you,  I  believed  the  only 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  291 

path  to  power  was,  in  the  long  run,  over  the  barricade. 
Like  you,  I  saw  and  see  the  weakness  of  the  right 
wing  of  the  poHticals.  I  have  not  come  here  to  make 
excuses  either  for  myself  or  for  that  right  wing.  For 
the  other,  the  militant-political  wing  led  by"  McGraw, 
to  which  I  now  belong,  I  offer  no  excuse.  There  is 
none  to  offer." 

"  'Militant-politicals.'  'Ear  'im,"  sneered  a  voice 
from  the  table. 

"To-day  I  believe  in  the  strike,  in  direct  action,  still," 
went  on  Destin  ignoring  the  voice,  "but  only  as  the 
left  hand  of  Labour.  I  believe  the  strike  alone  is  a 
two-edged  sword  which  may  or  may  not  hurt  the  em- 
ployer, but  which  in  its  back-swing  is  capable  of  lop- 
ping the  head  of  Labour  itself.  I  have  been  coming  to 
this  for  many  months.  I  fought,  God  knows,  against 
the  new  ideas  as  hard  as  any  Conservative — we  are  all 
conservatives  at  heart.  The  realisation  came  to  me 
the  morning  Brian  Creegan  and  I  walked  in  the  park, 
where  we  saw  the  city  that  rose  in  the  night — ^the  city 
of  soldiers.    It  was  the  lift  of  the  Big  Stick. 

"I  had  seen  it  before  twice.  Once  at  the  Great 
North-Western  Conference,  where  the  stick  was  held 
over  our  heads.  Once  before  that  in  the  Trafalgar 
Square  protest  meeting  about  Joe  Lanthorne,  the  en- 
gine driver,  where  the  orderly,  deadly  forces  of  the 
law  breakwatered*  the  mob ;  where  every  buildmg  was 
the  hiding  place  of  the  police ;  and  where  in  the  back- 
ground at  the  barracks,  the  redcoats  waited  to  be  loosed 
at  the  signal. 

"It  was  Force's  reply  to  Force. 


292  DEMOCRACY 

"Those  things  pulled  me  up— -scared  me — ^but  I  put 
them  on  one  side.  I  belonged  to  the  revolutionary, 
not  to  the  evolutionary  school.  (Many  men  damn 
themselves,  and  others,  for  a  word.)  The  proletariat 
was  going  to  march  to  victory,  and  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  would  seize  the  reins  of  power  and  change 
everything — would  beat  the  armed  forces  of  the  law 
to  the  ground  and  bring  Society  around  to  its  side 
and  make  Society  good  by  Act  of  Parliament  whether 
it  liked  it  or  not — would  in  fact  force  its  views  upon 
Society — ^that  Society  against  which  it  rebelled  be- 
cause it  wished  to  force  its  viewS  upon  the  Democracy. 
Where  is  the  difference?" 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  faces  before  him.  They 
were  all  listening  closely,  but  were  silent.  Only 
Creegan  kept  his  face  down  as  he  stabbed  the  table 
before  him  with  the  blade  of  a  clasp  knife. 

"Now  you  are  about  to  make  your  final  appeal  to 
force  in  the  supreme  end  of  Syndicalism — in  the  armed 
General  Strike.  Look  at  the  facts  and  let  us  forget 
that  we  are  either  Syndicalist  or  Political.  Look  at 
the  facts."  It  was  Destin's  Irish  persuasiveness — the 
persuasiveness  that  none  could  resist. 

"Supposing  you  could  count  upon  the  four  millions 
now  out  on  strike — supposing  you  could  count  on  them 
to  the  last  man — and  you  can't — you  would  still  be 
beaten.  If  the  employers  would  let  the  strike  proceed 
by  passive  resistance — would  let  you  hang  up  indefi- 
nitely the  national  machinery — well  and  good.  Sooner 
or  later,  to  save  itself  from  bankruptcy,  and  always 
providing  you  yourselves  could  hold  out  long  enough. 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  293 

the  Masters,  that  is  the  Government,  would  have  to 
give  in.  But  the  Masters  will  do  nothing  of  the 
kind. 

"To-day  I  learn — it  doesn't  matter  how" — (Creegan 
bad  straightened  himself  and  was  looking  closely  at 
the  speaker)  "that  the  troops  you  have  seen  are  to 
line  the  streets  of  London — thirty-five  thousand  of 
them — to  convoy  food  handled  by  'blacklegs'  from  the 
docks.  That  was  Winterhurst's  idea  if  it  is  any  satis- 
faction to  you,  and  Winterhurst  doesn't  do  these 
things  without  thinking  everything  out  to  the  last 
hair." 

"Winterhurst's  not  the  world,"  said  Creegan,  jerk- 
ing sullenly  into  his  speech. 

"No,"  replied  Destin,  "but  he's  a  good  big  slice  of 
it  at  the  moment."    He  went  on: 

"If  you  still  remain  passive — well  and  good — ^you 
will  not  be  brought  into  conflict  with  the  armed  forces 
of  the  law — ^but  in  that  case  your  strike  has  failed.  If 
you  resist  the  transport,  you  bring  the  Big  Stick  down 
on  you  in  a  moment  and  we  shall  have  battle,  murder, 
and  sudden  death  in  our  streets."  (He  paused  to  see 
the  effect  of  his  words — there  was  something  painful 
in  the  way  his  audience  were  listening  now.) 

"Now,  even  if  all  the  four  millions  throughout  Eng- 
land unite  in  resisting  by  force  the  army,  navy,  and 
police — will  they  win?  You  know — I  know — the  ofB- 
cer  below  there  whose  words  come  to  us  here,  knows, 
that  they  will  be  dispersed  like  foam  of  the  wave — 
scattered  before  the  death-rattle  of  the  rifle  and  the 
Maxim,    You  know— even  Creegan  there  really  knows 


294  DEMOCRACY 

— they  will  fire  on  us.  If  they  are  called  on  to  shoot, 
they  will  shoot  with  just  as  much  compunction  as  a 
well-drilled  machine — no  more  and  no  less.  The  con- 
science of  the  mass  is  another  conscience  than  the 
consciences  of  the  individuals  composing  it.  Creegan 
ought  to  know  that.'* 

"It  is  a  lie/*  said  Creegan.  "They  won't  fire.  They 
are  our  comrades.  They  are  bone  of  our  bone  and 
flesh  of  our  flesh."  The  voice  cut  raucously  across  the 
speaker's.    "I  know  my  class." 

"Destin  is  right,"  came  a  voice  in  thin  irony  from 
the  bottom  of  the  table.  "I  know  my  clawss."  It  was 
Graney.    Somebody  laughed. 

"Can  you  fight  the  British  army?  Can  you  fight 
the  British  policeman?  Can  you  fight  the  British 
navy?"  Destin  went  on  passionlessly.  Even  Creegan 
was  silent. 

"And  you  can't  depend  upon  four  millions.  You 
can't  depend  upon  four  hundred  thousand.  You  can 
only  depend  upon  the  Grand  International  with  its 
three  hundred  thousand  and  upon  the  flotsam  and  jet- 
sam of  the  city  streets  who  will  come  up  like  dirty 
scum  upon  the  tide  of  revolution.  For,  as  you  know, 
the  Strike  Organization  Committee  has  decided  to 
ask  the  men  to  keep  out  of  the  streets  whilst  they  open 
negotiations  with  the  employers." 

"The  Masters  have  refused  to  negotiate,"  said  Red 
Fitz,  heavily.     "They  say — 'Go  back  or  be  bashed' " 

"We  are  going  on  alone,"  boomed  Creegan. 

"Now,  gents,  let's  get  on  with  the  business  of  the 
meeting,"  said  the  little  grocer  in  the  chair.    "No  back 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  25?7 

talk."  He  looked  very  fierce.  Something  like  a  smile 
trembled  on  Creegan's  face  and  flickered  out. 

"We  are  discussing  matters  of  life  and  death,"  the 
chairman  went  on  sententiously. 

"Of  death,  you  mean,"  said  Graney. 

"Shut  your  lip,  Graney,"  said  Creegan  menacingly, 
"or  ril  give  you  some  more  Victoria  Hall." 

"Afride  of  you,  Creegan,"  said  the  little  man  com- 
ing to  his  feet  like  a  bantam  cock.  "Afride  of  you, 
you  bullocky  Irisher !" 

"Now,  gents,"  said  the  chairman,  pounding  the 
table,  "this  isn't  a  night  at  the  National  Sporting  you 
know.  Sit  down,  Graney."  There  was  fire  in  his  eye. 
Graney  resumed  his  seat,  scowling  at  Creegan. 

"And  you,  Brian  Creegan — Fm  ashimed  of  you, 
leading  up  to  a  breach  of  the  peace."  Creegan  sat 
abashed  like  a  great  child  caught  in  some  naughti- 
ness. 

"Now  to  get  back  to  business,"  went  on  Destin,  who 
had  stood  unruffled  through  all  this.  "Where  does 
this  leave  us  ? 

"It  means  that  Democracy  is  thrown  back  on  the 
vote  as  its  chief  road  of  advance,  using  the  strike  only 
to  hamper  the  capitalists  as  opportunity  offers,  to  dis- 
locate business,  and  never  to  prolong  it  long  enough  to 
bring  the  forces  of  the  Crown  into  operation — to  bring 
the  Big  Stick." 

"Don't  quote  from  your  'New  Revolution,' " 
growled  Creegan.  "You  talk  like  a  book,  not  like  a 
red-blooded  man." 

Destin,  unmoved,  went  on.     "These  are  the  facts. 


296  DEMOCRACY 

Can  they  be  set  aside?  If  they  can,  I  am  willing  to 
change  my  mind." 

"You  are  an  adept  at  changing  your  coat  or  your 
mind,"  sneered  Creegan. 

Destin  ignored  him.  "That  means  that  we  must 
grasp  the  reins  of  power-— of  political  power — of  Par- 
liamentary power.  We  can  only  do  that  by  educa- 
tion— people  always  get  the  Government  they  deserve. 
No  government,  even  if  it  would,  can  advance  one  inch 
beyond  the  educational  status  of  the  democracy.  Yet 
democracy  itself  is  the  great  educator  and  must  be  the 
educator  because  it  is  the  nursery  of  Government  as 
of  all  other  things. 

"You  revolutionists  think,"  said  Destin,  gradually 
passing  from  defence  to  attack,  "that  all  the  proletariat 
has  to  do  is  to  man  the  barricades,  defeat  the  armed 
forces  of  Society,  take  over  the  reins  of  Government — 
that  Government  which  you  hate,  because  all  govern- 
ment means  politics — and  in  some  unexplained  way, 
revolutionise  Society,  making  it  happy  and  contented 
whether  it  will  or  no.  All  this  without  intermediate 
stage — without  that  education  which  is  the  essential  of 
all  progress.  You  imagine  that  because  the  Govern- 
ments of  the  time  are  ignorant — painfully  ignorant — 
like  the  democracy  which  elects  them,  and  that  because 
you  come  brimming  with  ideas  and  ideals,  you  can 
change  everything,  again  always  forgetting  that  the 
Governments  are  elected  by  the  people  and  that  the 
people  get  always  the  government  they  deserve. 

"Can  you  not  see  that  the  political  battle  is  the 
eternal  battle — ^that  when  you  have  entered  the  New 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  297 

Jerusalem,  there  will  always  be  revolution  in  her  streets 
— in  the  golden  ways,  and  that  as  the  Socialists  seize 
the  reins  of  power,  they  in  their  turn  become  the  Con- 
servatives of  party  embattling  themselves  with  the 
newer  and  younger  spirits  who  wish  for  new  roads  and 
new  methods?  This  is  the  eternal  battle  between  the 
right  and  left  wings,  even  after  Socialism  becomes  an 
accomplished  fact. 

"Have  you  not  learnt" — (Destin  was  now  the  ac- 
cuser) "have  you  not  learnt  that  new  and  tremendous 
problems  have  been  loosed  over  the  democracies  of  the 
world  by  the  recent  war — ^and  this  long  before  Society 
reaches  the  communist  or  co-operative  stage?  In  the 
forefront  is  the  question  of  militarism.  Have  we  any 
unity  upon  that  ?  Is  the  whole  European  International 
of  one  mind?  Has  it  been  decided  in  every  country 
that  never  again  shall  the  representatives  of  the  pro- 
letariat in  Parliament  or  Reichstag  or  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  vote  a  halfpenny  for  war  or  war  material? 
Are  we  even  agreed  upon  the  quest io.n  of  universal  dis- 
armament? Have  we  even  a  war  policy — the  most 
essential  of  all  things  for  organised  Social  Democracy? 
Are  we  for  or  against  colonisation  and  the  absorption 
of  small  nationalities?  Are  the  Socialist  parties  of  the 
world  agreed  unanimously  that  it  is  or  is  not  right  for 
Socialists  to  sit  in  Capitalist  ministries? 

"Or,  taking  something  of  the  very  immediate  pres- 
ent, with  the  swing  of  Latin  Syndicalism  towards 
militarism  and  nationalism  since  the  outbreak  of  the 
recent  war,  are  the  Syndicalists  themselves  agreed?" 

He  had  stopped.    The  faces  of  the  men  before  him 


298  DEMOCRACY 

showed  doubt,  anger — even  fear.  Graney  was  holding 
the  edge  of  the  table  in  his  hands,  craning  to  each 
sentence.  It  was  a  new  earth  that  Destin  was  opening 
to  them. 

"But  passing  from  the  present — how  many  of  you 
who  speak  glibly  of  the  new  revolution — who  talk 
about  abolishing  all  competition  and  substituting  co- 
operation— ^have  thought  of  the  newer,  fiercer  competi- 
tion that  co-operation  will  unloose?  Of  the  competi- 
tion, not  for  the  bread  and  butter  of  life,  but  for  the 
fountain  of  life  itself — the  arts,  sciences,  yes,  even  in 
the  realm  of  the  super-physical?  when  the  minds  of 
men  are  freed  from  the  moil  and  toil  of  the  bread- 
battle — the  fight  for  that  bread  which  will  be  manu- 
factured automatically  by  the  machinery  of  those 
days — when  man  has  conquered  the  machine,  instead 
of  being  conquered  by  it? 

"Or  have  you  thought  of  the  race  problems  now 
expanding  before  the  gaze  of  a  half-awakened  Europe? 
What  about  the  challenge  of  the  East — of  the  eight 
hundred  millions  of  yellow  and  brown  men — which 
has  already  begun— of  a  12-hour  day  worked  for  six- 
pence against  an  8-hour  day  worked  for  an5rthing  from 
eight  shillings  to  forty  as  you  take  the  European  or 
American  wage-standard? 

"Do  you  know  that  even  now  the  Masters  have 
threatened  to  bring  the  first  of  the  yellow  flood  to  break 
your  strike  as  they  did  in  South  Africa  a  generation 
ago?  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  preparations  now 
being  made  in  China  and  in  her  schoolmaster  Japan, 
to  drive  European  goods  out  of  the  market  by  sheer 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  299 

fiumber  and  endurance-force — a  challenge  to  be  backed 
when  the  time  comes  by  the  bayonet  and  bullet? 

"And  are  you  Syndicalists,  who  have  cut  and  dried 
everything,  decided  how  organised  White  labour  will 
meet  the  new  challenge,  when  you  cannot  even  decide 
to  admit  coloured  men  to  your  Unions  in  those  White 
countries  where  they  live  ?  How  are  you  going  to  keep 
up  the  White  Life-Standard  before  the  coming  Yellow 
and  Brown  invasion? 

"And  with  these  terrific  problems  confronting  you, 
you  wish  to  throw  away  the  little  you  have  so  tortu- 
ously won  and  have  been  losing,  for  the  statistics  prove 
beyond  question  that  allowing  for  certain  municipal 
schemes,  the  European  workers'  life-standard  has  de- 
clined within  the  twenty  years  before  the  war — ^you 
propose  to  put  your  unprotected  head  in  the  lion  jaws 
of  Society.  You  wish  to  invite  the  whiff  of  grape 
which  will  not  only  leave  you  but  Europe  helpless  in 
the  face  of  the  Yellow  Shadow. 

"But  whether  you  Syndicalists  invite  the  avalanche 
—whether  the  present  strike  is  stamped  out  by  the 
red  hobs  of  Society  and  the  Democracy  of  to-day  goes 
down  in  blood  and  tears — Democracy  itself  is  death- 
less. Once  more — a  hundred  times  more — it  will  lift 
itself  from  its  belly  and  raise  its  blinded  eyes  towards 
the  light.  Democracy  is  bigger  than  Syndicalism — it 
is  bigger  even  than  Socialism — it  is  the  biggest,  the 
most  certain  thing  in  the  world — it  is  Evolution  itself 
with  the  Will  behind." 

Destin  sat  down  abruptly,  his  face  flushed,  his  fight- 
ing spirit  roused.    He  had  passed  from  the  position  of 


300  DEMOCRACY 

accused  to  that  of  accuser.  Some  of  the  men  before 
him  were  breathing  hard  as  though  they  had  been 
running — some  stolid — some  imcomprehending. 

Creegan  stood  up. 

"You  coward!"  he  said. 

"I  am  no  coward,"  said  Destm,  "but  I  am  frightened 
all  the  same." 

"You're  a  traitor.  You've  sold  the  pass,"  went  on 
Creegan.    "Now  listen  to  me." 

He  reached  upwards,  the  end  of  his  extinguished 
cheroot  forgotten  between  his  lips.  He  remembered  it 
and  spat  it  out  on  the  floor  angrily  as  though  it  stopped 
his  free  expression. 

"You  all  know  what  I  stand  for — force — physical 
force.  You  know  'tis  for  the  bullet  I  stand  and  not  the 
ballot.  You  know  that  I  believe,  and  all  history  has 
shown  it,  that  the  classes  will  never  yield  to  the  masses 
by  intellectual  persuasion.  If  we  ever  got  hold  of  the 
Parliamentary  machine,  I  tell  ye,  if  they  could  not 
crook  it  from  us  they  would  shoot  it  from  us.  Let 
our  trial  of  strength  come  now.  I  don't  believe  the 
soldiers  will  fire  on  their  own  comrades. 

"If  they  shoot,  let  them  pay  the  price,  and  'tis  a 
terrible  price  they'll  have  to  pay.  Let  us  meet  them 
now  in  the  streets.  Let  us  commence  sabotage  as 
Madame  Satalia  has  suggested.  Like  our  French  and 
Italian  comrades,  let  us  wreck  the  railways  and  the 
public  buildings.  Let  us  lay  their  towns  in  ruins  and 
out  of  the  ashes  and  the  blood  let  us  build  the  fair  city 
of  to-morrow.  Let  us  have  hell  and  bring  heaven  out 
of  it. 


THE  BLINDED  GIANT  301 

"My  own  people,  the  Irish,  will  fight.  I  can  pledge 
myself  on  them.  Faith  'tis  they  that  have  more  revolu- 
tion to  the  square  inch  than  the  whole  of  the  rest  of 
the  United  Kingdom.  They  are  the  boys  to  lead  a 
revolution.  When  the  Grand  International  gives  the 
lead,  it  is  little  the  Trades  Unionists  outside  will  heed 
the  voices  of  their  coward  chiefs.  Victory  is  ours. 
We'll  go  full  steam  ahead.  If  Society  is  knocked  into 
smithereens,  so  much  the  worse  for  Society. 

"We  have  four  millions  of  men  out.  Can  they  fight 
four  jnillions?  Not  a  man  has  black-legged  on  us — 
ratted  on  us.  The  mass  of  the  workers  will  follow  us 
and  not  the  political  scally-wags  who  have  pulled  down 
the  red  flag.  And  anyhow,  the  Government  cannot 
move  its  troops  or  get  supplies  to  them. 

"Oh  it's  true  that  here  and  there  men  can  rat  from 
us — like  that  man  there" — ^he  turned  contemptuously 
towards  Destin — "but  the  mass  are  true.  Each  for  all 
and  all  for  each! 

"Before  he  talks  of  yellow  Chinese  let  him  explain 
his  own  yellow  heart — before  he  talks  of  challenges,  let 
him  examine  his  own  challenge  to  his  old  comrades. 
The  soldiers  will  not  fire  I  say — if  they  do,  we  have 
their  answer  for  them  below  there."  He  pointed  down- 
wards to  the  cellar,  from  where  came  the  tramp  of 
men. 

That  was  the  right  spirit.  The  men  before  him  could 
understand  these  concrete  things — they  hated  abstrac- 
tions. Of  course  it  was  all  moonshine.  Let  Destin 
stick  to  his  books — ^they  were  dealing  with  facts,  not 
printed  words.    "To  hell  with  theory !"  Red  Fitz  said. 


302  DEMOCRACY 

But  little  Graney  from  the  end  of  the  table  said — 
"No  blighted  fear.  Destin  has  the  dog  by  the  right 
end — ^the  business  end.  We  have  the  brute  by  the 
tail." 

Creegan  spat  on  the  floor. 

A  wave  of  uncertainty  passed  over  the  faces  of  the 
men  at  Graney' s  remark.  After  all,  Graney  was  a 
level-headed  little  devil.  There  might  be  something  in 
it.  And  Destin  had  been  all  right  until  this  political 
business  had  got  hold  of  him.  .  .  .  On  the  other  hand, 
Creegan  ought  to  know.     He  had  always  been  right. 

The  men  were  wavering,  when  the  windows  rattled. 
There  came  the  boom  of  a  distant  drum  to  their  ears 
in  the  gathering  shadows.  .  .  .  Now  cutting  through 
it  plaintively  came  the  pipes.  It  drew  closer  until  the 
space  before  the  Hall  was  full  of  people,  the  place 
hollow  to  the  beat  of  drum  and  the  skirl  of  the  war- 
pipes. 

In  front  came  the  fife  and  drum  band  of  the  Invin- 
cibles,  the  long-legged  drummer  twirling  his  sticks  as 
though  possessed,  the  red  flag  of  revolution  carried  at 
the  head.  Behind  strode  half  a  dozen  pipers,  the  green 
ribands  from  their  pipes  flying  in  the  breeze.  The 
waves  of  people  who  hung  on  their  heels  were  dirty 
and  ragged,  but  they  cheered  deafeningly  for  "The 
Revolution." 

The  others  had  run  to  the  window  at  the  drum,  save 
for  little  Graney,  who  still  sat  hunched  in  his  chair, 
leaving  Destin  there,  forgotten. 

Destin  passed  out  of  the  room  alone. 


XXIII 

THE    BIG    STICK 

WiNTERHURST,  as  Home  Secretary,  had  placed  Lon- 
don in  a  strait  jacket.  The  first  convoy  of  food  from 
the  docks,  handled  by  the  labour  "black-legs,"  was  to  go 
through  this  fine  May  morning  when  Destin  and  Mc- 
Graw,  still  hoping  to  hold  back  the  people  from  the 
armed  men,  walked  down  past  the  Bank  of  England 
towards  Fraternity  Hall. 

Winterhurst*s  grip  was  everywhere.  The  announce- 
ment of  the  convoy  had  been  made  quite  openly  in  the 
papers  of  the  previous  day,  when  "all  law-abiding 
citizens"  were  warned  to  keep  away  from  the  route  to 
the  city.  They  walked  in  the  centre  of  a  fairway  lined, 
as  though  for  a  Royal  procession,  with  brown,  hard- 
faced  young  men,  some  of  them  boys,  who  marked  the 
curbstone  in  khaki  intervals.  Winterhurst  had  said — 
"The  Government  deprecates  the  use  of  force  and 
indeed  believes  that  no  force  will  be  necessary — but 
the  food  is  going  through/' 

"The  food  is  going  through."  It  was  "Winter hurst's 
way,"  which  the-man-in-the-street  had  come  to  know 
and  admire. 

They  heard  the  tramp  of  feet,  and  a  regiment  of 
Guardsmen,  crimson,  black,  and  steel,  moved  past,  led 
by  a  distinguished-looking  man,  whose  bearskin  passed 

303 


304  DEMOCRACY 

high  over  the  heads  of  the  men  on  the  curbstone,  the 
broad  scarlet  stripe  of  the  leg  moving  evenly  beside  the 
narrower  stripes  of  the  men.  It  was  the  perfection  of 
the  man-machine. 

*Winterhurst's  Invincibles,"  said  McGraw  in  his 
dour  Scottish  way,  taking  his  curved  briar  from  his 
mouth  for  the  moment  to  say  it. 

They  found  themselves  stopped  at  the  entrance  to 
Leadenhall  Street — stopped  by  a  cordon  of  police  who 
seemed  to  have  come  up  out  of  the  ground.  The 
moment  before  the  way  had  been  free.  Now  the  big 
men,  their  capes  rolled  at  their  sides,  barred  the  road 
impassively. 

Forced  to  detour,  they  walked  down  Gracechurch 
Street,  but  on  coming  out  opposite  the  Monument,  the 
top  a  sheaf  of  burnished  spears  in  the  quiet  sun  of  the 
early  morning,  they  saw  another  line  of  policemen 
straddling  Eastcheap,  with  a  couple  of  files  of  men  in 
khaki  in  the  background,  their  boy-officer  passing 
slowly  up  and  down  before  them  as  though  the  affairs 
of  empire  lay  heavily  on  him. 

"There  come  the  other  Invincibles,"  said  McGraw, 
pointing  the  smoking  stem  of  his  pipe  the  length  of 
Eastcheap. 

As  Destin  turned,  something  thrilled  on  the  morning 
air.  The  windows  of  the  office  near  him  rattled.  Then 
the  beating  of  a  drum  and  the  piercing  notes  of  the 
fifes  playing  "The  Night  that  Larry  was  Stretched," 
the  marching-tune  of  the  Invincibles. 

"Atten-shun !" 

The  men  in  khaki  had  stiffened. 


THE  BIG  STICK  305 

The  little  body,  uniformed  with  green  caps  and  green 
sashes,  at  their  head  a  red  flag,  swung  along  the  empti- 
ness of  the  street.  Fringing  them  on  either  side  was 
a  floating  rabble,  a  little  boy,  with  tow-coloured  hair, 
strutting  in  front  of  them.  The  long-legged,  red- 
headed drummer  whom  Destin  had  seen  a  few  days 
before  opposite  Fraternity  Hall,  was  still  twirling  his 
sticks  in  fancy  swings,  now  under,  now  over,  the 
handles  glittering  as  they  turned. 

The  space  had  narrowed  to  a  hundred  )rards,  but 
still  they  came  on.  Now  they  were  playing  "The  Red 
Flag,"  marching  with  a  slower,  steadier  gait,  singing 
as  they  came: 

"With  heads  uncovered  swear  we  all 
To  bear  it  onward  till  we  fall. 
Come  dungeon  dark  or  gallows  grim 

This  song  shall  be  our  parting  hymn.  .  .  ." 

Behind,  a  chorus  had  swelled  as  though  the  dia- 
pasons of  a  great  organ  had  been  drawn  out.  But  it 
was  a  disciplined  chorus,  bursting  from  thousands  of 
throats  together.  It  came  from  something  back  there 
they  could  not  see. 

The  soldiers  made  no  sign,  contenting  themselves 
with  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  way. 

The  drum  took  a  deeper  note,  the  fifes  a  higher.  The 
space  was  narrowing,  when  McGraw  took  a  quick 
resolution. 

"Now  or  never  !'*  he  said.  "There  will  be  ugly  work 
in  a  moment  if  we  can't  stop  them.    Come  on.'* 


306  DEMOCRACY 

He  ran  forward  at  the  double  through  the  lines  of 
blue  and  khaki  like  a  young  man,  with  Destin  behind 
him.  As  they  ran,  they  heard  cheers  breaking  out 
raggedly  from  behind  the  band  and  caught  the  gleam 
of  the  sun  on  something  shining  back  there  in  the 
blackness  of  people  that  flowed  down  the  channel  of 
the  street  like  storm-water. 

"Where  is  Creegan?"  panted  McGraw  as  he  came 
up  with  the  man  carrying  the  red  flag. 

"Stand  out  of  the  way  McGraw  V*  He  threw  it  at 
him  over  his  shoulder  as  he  passed. 

They  were  almost  on  the  police,  who  passing  through 
the  khaki  lines  had  loosened  their  batons,  when  Destin 
saw  Graney  trying  to  reach  him  out  of  the  press. 

"Graney,  stop  them  for  God's  sake!  The  soldiers 
are  waiting  for  you." 

Graney,  with  an  exclamation,  ran  to  the  head,  and  in 
the  last  twenty  yards  turned  to  face  the  oncoming 
multitude,  holding  his  sparse  arms,  scarecrow-like,  to 
stop  them,  and  seizing  the  staff  of  the  flag.  The  lead- 
ing files  seeing  Graney's  badge  as  marshal  hesitated  a 
moment,  but  the  big  drummer,  by  this  time  maddened, 
took  another  flourish  of  his  sticks  as  the  music  petered 
out.  In  a  moment  Graney  had  run  between  the  two 
foremost  men  and  had  clutched  his  arm. 

The  big  man  shook  him  off  as  though  he  had  been 
a  rat  and  raised  his  drumsticks.  "On  boys!"  he 
shouted,  and  brought  the  sticks  down  one  after  the 
other.  The  fifes  took  up  the  tune  again  and  on  the 
crowd  rushed,  surging  around  them  from  both  sides 
like  a  wave  that  overruns  a  rock  in  the  ocean. 


THE  BIG  STICK  307 

"Open  out!*'    It  was  Creegan. 

The  bandsmen  opened  out,  leaving  a  thin  channel 
between  them.  Something  ran  along  the  channel — a 
long  line  of  powerful  men  who  broke  through  the  thin 
blue  line  of  police  without  feeling  them  and  were  into 
the  khaki  line  before  the  officer  knew  what  was  happen- 
ing. They  brushed  on  and  over  them,  forming  steadily 
on  the  other  side  to  the  word  of  command  as  they  came 
out,  whilst  behind  them  the  pressure  grew.  The  crowd 
came  on,  unseeing. 

Now  they  were  passing  down  King  William  Street. 
Destin  had  been  swept  off  his  feet,  helpless,  and  as  they 
broke  through  he  had  found  himself  mingled  with  the 
head  of  the  column  as  it  formed  itself  under  the  quick, 
high  command  of  Creegan. 

The  band  coming  at  the  tail  of  the  rush,  re-formed, 
the  scattered  police  and  soldiers  not  trying  to  stop 
them.  Again  the  boom  of  the  drum  and  the  scream 
of  fifes  rose  on  the  air,  and  for  the  first  time  Destin 
saw  that  each  man  of  the  Invincibles  was  armed  with 
rifle  and  bayonet. 

Creegan  walked  before,  breaking  step,  his  figure 
dominating  the  crowd,  his  hat  set  at  a  ferocious  slant. 
His  face  was  the  face  of  the  new  Creegan — the  omnip- 
otent Creegan  before  whose  blast  the  walls  of  Jericho 
should  go  down. 

But  Destin  made  a  last  attempt.  "Brian !  Brian  V 
He  had  managed,  battered  as  he  was,  to  reach  him. 

"Stop  it,  Creegan !  Stop  it !  The  soldiers  are  wait- 
ing at  the  Bank.    They  are  waiting." 

Creegan  wheeled  and  lashed  at  him.     It  caught 


308  DEMOCRACY 

Destin  fairly  on  the  side  of  the  jaw.  He  felt  his  senses 
going  and  his  mouth  filling  with  something  which  came 
salt  to  the  taste.  He  reeled  on  to  the  first  rank  which 
threw  him  from  man  to  man  like  a  foam  bubble  until 
he  was  on  the  fringe  of  the  human  wave. 

With  a  vague  idea  of  stopping  the  thing  that  was 
coming,  he  strove  to  keep  up  with  the  crowd.  The 
drum  was  beating  itself  out  against  the  walls  of  the 
high  offices,  the  fifes  shrilling,  the  sweating  faces  of 
the  men  blowing  downwards  as  though  to  blow  on  the 
fires  of  hate.  The  crowd  swept  on  behind,  not  seeing 
and  not  knowing  where  they  were  heading.  Only 
movement — ^movement — ^movement.  Oil!  It  did  not 
matter  where.    But  on ! 

He  felt  the  pressure  relax — found  himself  forced 
outwards  into  a  sort  of  eddy  where  the  corner  of  King 
William  Street  lapped  Lombard  Street. 

Somebody  was  half-edging  him,  half-carrying  him 
out  of  the  rabble.  He  found  himself  against  a  ladder. 
"Now,"  came  a  high  voice.    It  was  Graney. 

"Up  'ere — 'ere !"  it  came  in  sharp  command.  Destin 
felt  himself  half -dragged,  half -climbing  the  ladder  of 
a  scaffolding  which  reared  itself  against  the  house  on 
the  Lombard  Street  corner.  As  they  threw  themselves 
on  the  first  staging,  the  ladder  by  which  they  had 
climbed  was  swept  away  by  the  crowd. 

"Thort  I  knew  what  to  do,"  said  Graney  trium- 
phantly. "I  'ope  Creegan  gets  'is  bloomin'  'ead  broke 
for  this  morning's  work,"  he  added  vindictively.  "I 
came  along  with  'em  to  try  and  stop  'em,  but  it  was 
fail  arskin'  for  it." 


THE  BIG  STICK  309 

They  climbed  the  high  stages  until  they  found  them- 
selves looking  down  from  the  height  of  the  fifth  storey 
at  the  people  who  swarmed  like  bees  beneath  them. 

Destin  cleared  his  eyes  and  his  mouth,  spitting  a 
stream  of  red  blood  on  the  boarding.  "He  caught  you 
orl  right,  mate,"  said  Graney.  "That  bullocky  Irisher 
can  'it.    I  know — I've  'ad  some. 

"Now  there's  going  to  be  'ell  with  the  lid  off,"  he 
said,  sententiously,  looking  down. 

Destin  for  the  first  time  understood  the  weight  of 
the  rush  behind  Creegan.  In  front,  marching  in  fairly 
good  order,  Creegan,  unarmed,  leading  them,  strode 
the  Invincibles,  whose  only  regimental  was  a  band  of 
red  around  the  left  arm.  There  were  perhaps  a  couple 
of  thousand  of  them.  They  were  armed  with  all  kinds 
of  rifles  from  Sniders  to  Martini-Henrys,  seized  chance 
and  Creegan  alone  knew  where,  the  needle  bayonets 
sticking  out  incongruously.  Behind  them  came  that 
maddened  band,  the  drummer  still  twirling  the  sticks, 
the  reverberations  coming  upwards  to  where  they 
crouched. 

But  behind — ^behind  was  the  mob,  stretching  down 
to  the  Monument  and  beyond — sl  human  torrent  that 
grew  under  the  eye,  and  from  everywhere,  without 
cohesion  or  purpose.  Each  side  alley  vomited  its  con- 
tribution to  the  ruck.  Sprinkling  it  were  women  and 
children,  the  shrill  cries  of  fainting  women  coming  out 
of  the  heart  of  the  press  which  fumed  upward  to  them. 
Already  the  very  scaffolding  on  which  they  lay  was 
shaking  under  the  impact  of  the  stream. 

In  places,  the  crowd  had  packed  itself  immoveable. 


310  DEMOCRACY 

Cries  from  the  front  made  the  crowd  sway  backwards 
a  moment,  only  the  next,  to  gather  volume  and  rush 
forward  once  more  like  the  crest  of  a  wave  dragged 
by  an  undertow. 

Then  his  eyes  passed  to  the  open  space  before  the 
Bank  of  England  which  held  itself  grey  and  peaceful 
in  the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  like  some  old  rock 
against  which  the  elements  spend  themselves  vainless. 
Before  the  main  entrance  the  Guards  regiment  he  had 
seen  was  standing  in  ruled  lines.  Policemen  were 
marching  in  like  automata.  On  the  entrances  to  Princes 
'Street  and  Cheapside  and  Queen  Victoria  Street 
cordons  of  khaki  held  the  ring  clear  as  though  for  a 
public  spectacle. 

As  he  looked,  he  saw  a  figure  come  out  on  the  steps 
of  the  Mansion  House  in  cocked  hat  and  robes.  It 
held  a  paper  before  it  and  moved  its  lips  and  head  and 
then  disappeared. 

He  was  looking  at  a  marionette  show  with  some 
invisible  power  working  the  strings. 

As  he  disappeared,  Destin  saw  Creegan  throw  up 
his  hand.  The  men  halted.  There  was  a  stiffening  of 
the  Guardsmen.  Before  them  a  doll-figure  nodded  its 
head  quickly  as  though  the  unseen  mouth  was  mov- 
ing. The  men  had  brought  their  rifles  to  the  ready. 
Another  movement  of  the  head,  and  they  had  brought 
them  to  their  shoulders.  Now,  Creegan^s  men  had 
debouched  into  three  lines,  the  front  lying  down  on  the 
macadam,  the  second  kneeling,  and  the  third  standing. 
As  something  inconsequent  but  particular,  he  noticed 
that  one  man  was  lying  in  a  pile  of  dung. 


THE  BIG  STICK  311 

The  place  was  silent.  The  shouting  of  the  crowds 
behind  broke  thinly  as  though  against  some  invisible 
barrier  as  it  reached  the  open  space. 

Then  as  the  hand  of  the  doll  rose  stick-like,  ready 
to  fall  with  the  signal  to  fire,  he  saw  a  woman  break 
from  the  crowd  at  the  side  and  run  between  the  oppos- 
ing lines  of  men,  her  hands  outstretched  as  though  to 
stop  the  slaughter.  The  hand  seemed  to  tremble,  then 
fell  unwavering.    A  crackle  came  to  his  ears. 

The  girl's  hands  had  come  down  convulsively  at  the 
first  spatter,  as  she  turned  and  fell  in  the  roadway. 
From  the  ranks  of  the  Invincibles  poured  a  scattered 
fire.  Then  the  people  fell  shadow-like  on  the  roads, 
flecking  the  macadam.  A  woman  at  the  side  tumbled 
over  on  her  face  screaming  in  a  high  piping  voice  like 
a  wounded  hare,  clutching  her  belly  with  her  hands 
as  though  to  staunch  the  life-blood  of  her  unborn  child. 
The  lines  were  converging  at  the  double,  the  bayonets 
gleaming.  A  figure  had  broken  from  the  ranks  of  the 
Invincibles  as  they  swept  up. 

Destin  was  holding  to  the  edge  of  the  boarding, 
staring  at  the  speck  that  lay  between. 

The  sleek  dark  head  and  white  neck  had  fallen 
brokenly  forward  in  the  dust,  where  he  caught  the 
emerald  green  of  the  dress. 

It  was  the  Green-eyed  Girl. 

In  that  moment  the  scales  fell  from  his  eyes. 


XXIV 

THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  BUBBLE 

Destin  lay  on  his  scaffolding  throughout  the  day, 
waiting  for  Graney,  who  had  slipped  down  to  bring 
back  the  news. 

He  had  seen  the  bayonets  of  the  Guardsmen  glit- 
tering, the  lifting  of  the  Invincibles,  and  the  impend- 
ing clash  over  the  body  of  the  girl.  There  was  the 
roar  of  waters  in  his  ears  as  darkness  fell  about  him. 

When  his  senses  came  to  him,  the  sounds  of  battle 
were  already  dying  away  in  the  distance — there  was 
an  occasional  rifle  crack,  and  once  he  even  thought, 
the  stutter  of  a  machine  gun.  Now,  at  the  end  of  the 
day,  as  he  craned  over  the  parapet,  he  saw  the  space 
below  him  deserted,  with  the  flare  of  the  arc-lights 
setting  out  the  shadows— or  were  they  something  else  ? 
— ^that  lay  here  and  there  on  the  white  macadam.  The 
irregular  triangle  was  deserted  save  for  the  soldiers 
who  bivouacked  across  Princes  Street  and  Cheapside. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  Graney,  his  coat 
bulging,  came  back  with  his  news. 

He  groped  and  pulled  out  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a 
bottle  of  something  which  he  gave  Destin,  who  drank. 
The  taste  nauseated  him,  but  he  felt  the  blood  once 
more  flowing  through  his  parched  body,  whilst  a 
mouthful  or  two  of  the  new  bread,  once  he  had  over- 

312 


THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  BUBBLE     313 

come  the  pain  of  mastication  with  his  stiffened  jaws, 
now  set  in  a  mask  of  blood,  put  fresh  strength  into 
him. 

Graney  did  not  speak,  but  watched  him  eat  in  silence, 
crouching  by  his  side  on  the  planking. 

"Well?"  said  Destin  dully. 

"We've  got  it  in  the  neck  this  time  and  no  error, 
mate,"  said  the  little  man  biting  his  moustache. 

"Is  ,  .  .  is  she  dead  ?"  he  asked,  the  thing  coming 
to  him  suddenly.  He  had  forgotten  the  girl  down 
there  as  though  she  were  something  with  which  he  had 
no  concern. 

"She.^"  asked  Graney,  puzzled.  "Oh!  the  girl. 
No,  she  isn't  dead.  Not  as  I  know  on.  They  didn't 
'arf  mangle  her  with  their  bloody  gunfire — I  don't 
fink.    She's  a  plucked  'un,  she  is.    Got  the  guts ! 

"You  couldn't  stop  the  Invincibles,"  he  went  on, 
"but  Creegan  ran  out  before  them  and  picked  her  up, 
breaking  his  way  back  through  the  first  rush.  They 
tell  me  he's  been  shot  through  the  shoulder — anyhow, 
he's  disappeared  with  the  girl." 

"I  must  go,"  said  Destin,  half-rising. 

"Wot  are  yer  a-torking  abaht?  Are  you  balmy, 
mate?  Do  you  know  they're  running  in  the  leaders 
right  and  left,  and  there's  a  hue  and  cry  after  Creegan 
fit  to  raise  the  dead.  If  you  walk  dahn  that  ladder 
you'll  walk  into  the  arms  of  a  copper — ^that's  what 
you'll  do,  and  that'll  be  the  end." 

"But  I  didn't  lead  them — ^maybe  more  shame  to  me," 
said  Destin. 

"That  don't  matter.    It  was  you  and  me  wot  brought 


314  DEMOCRACY 

them  tip  to  the  scratch,  wasn't  it,  even  though  we 
cleared  out  at  the  last  moment  ?  and  Winterhurst's  net, 
blast  him !  is  big  enough  and  bHnd  enough  to  swallow 
everything.    All's  fish  that  comes  to  his  net  to-day." 

Destin  lay  back  again.    Graney  was  right. 

"You- know,"  went  on  Graney,  "I'm  a  little  feller — 
I  sneaked  back  here  like  a  shadow — but  you're  a 
bullocky  big  bloke — a.  regular  Irisher." 

"You're  sure  she's  not  dead?"  asked  Destin  again. 

Graney  stared  at  him.  "Well,  mate — she's  a  rare 
plucked  'un  and  all  that,  but  she's  not  the  only  pebble 
on  the  beach.  There  are  others.  W'y  Gawd  bless  my 
soul — do  ye  know  wot's  been  going  on  dahn  there?" 
He  pointed  vaguely  over  the  edge.  "They've  knocked 
a  hundred  of  our  fellows  cold — with  a  few  women  and 
kiddies  who  got  in  the  way,  as  a  makeweight,  and 
Gawd  knows  how  many  *ave  slunk  away  to  die  in  their 
*oles.  The  Invincibles  fought  like  hell,  but  the  Maxims 
were  too  much  for  them,  and  o'  course  the  politicals, 
like  wise  men,  stayed  at  'ome.  They've  done  in  nearly 
half  a  hundred  of  the  sojers,  and  they  tell  me  that  the 
remainder  of  them,  left  be'ind  to  fight  the  food  convoy 
at  the  docks,  'ave  a  couple  of  thahsand  buck  navvies  at 
work  throwing  up  entrenchments  acrawss  the  streets 
leading  to  Tower  Hill,  and  'ave  filled  the  'ahses  with 
armed  men.  They  'ave  a  terrible  lot  up  there  wiv  them 
—every  crook  and  cutthroat  aht  for  to  see  the  fun,  and 
their  'ands  fair  itching  for  the  pickings  afterwards. 
They  did  send  the  coppers  agin  them  but  they  ate  up 
a  score  of  'em  in  a  jiff.    They'll  wait  for  the  sojers. 

"But  it  was  in  the  West  that  hell  broke  loose.    The 


THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  BUBBLE     315 

capting,  *oo  was  In  charge  of  the  West-end  contingent, 
was  shot  through  the  head  the  first  rush.  Some  of 
the  mob  broke  awye  dahn  the  Embankment  and  uf) 
Northumberland  Avenue.  They  started  a-bashing  of 
the  clubs  and  the  peelers,  and  the  West  London  Syndi- 
calists broke  loose  to  meet  them.  They've  made  a  fair 
china  shop  of  Kensington  and  Piccadilly.  It  was  all 
that  brute  Goring. 

'T  seed  that  fellow  with  Winterhurst  directing  the 
men  in  grey  from  a  balcony  in  the  hoperations  at 
Hoxford  Circus — ^but  that  was  at  the  hend  of  the 
dye." 

Seeing  the  look  of  puzzlement  on  Destin's  face, 
he  added — "Didn't  you  know?  Goring  and  the  Em- 
ployers' Defence  Union  had  armed  their  private  braves 
— ^middle  clawssy  blokes  who  carried  a  pen  in  the  day- 
time and  at  night  a  bloomin'  gun.  Seems  they  had 
Government  powers.  Ccnserkently,  every  factory  and 
every  private  'ahse  was  packed  to  the  doors  with  the 
boys  in  grey. 

"We'd  'ad  the  boys  in  blue  and  +he  boys  in  red  and 
khaki — ^now  we're  up  against  the  boys  in  grey.  Tork 
abaht  fightin'  the  British  Hempire. 

"Some  of  the  Invincibles  had  got  through  from  the 
fight  arahnd  the  Bank  and  tried  to  join  up  with  the 
West-end  lot,  but  they  were  lined  up  and  shot  aht  o' 
'and  when  cort  wiv  the  firearms  smokin'  in  their  *ands. 
But  even  had  they  'eld  together  they  'adn't  an  earthly. 
The  whole  place  began  to  vomit  men  in  blue  and  khaki 
and  grey — and  there  was  Winterhurst,  with  Courcy  by 
his  side,  directing  the  business  as  cool  as  Christmas. 


316  DEMOCRACY 

"Well,  as  I  was  sym',  Goring  on  a  *orse,  looking 
like  a  potboiler,  was  a-urgin'  on  the  boys  to  the  work 
with  the  Big  Stick.  Gawd!  it  fair  sickens  me  w'en  I 
fink  of  it.  You  should  sl  'eard  the  nuts  go  under  the 
batons — ^like  filbers  cracking  in  a  door- jamb. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  was,  three-fourths  of  the  mob 
were  no  more  Syndicalist  than  you  ...  or  I  for  that 
matter,"  he  added.  "They  were  just  the  hold-ons  of 
the  back-blocks — the  scum  that  rose  on  the  top  of  the 
others,  aht  for  plunder.  And  nah  there's  no  plunder 
but  bloody  murder.  Some  of  them  are  swearing  to 
revenge  themselves  on  Creegan  for  bringing  them  into 
it.  Even  some  of  our  own  men  are  savage  agin  him. 
If  he  showed  hisself  nah,  I  believe  they'd  do  'im  in — 
some  of  the  worst  on  'em. 

"But  I  seed  Courcy  and  he  was  a  torkin'  earnestly  to 
Winterhurst  in  the  balcony.  'E  didn't  like  the  dirty 
work  and  when  the  Maxims  began  to  play  and  the 
crowd  to  fall  under  the  bullets,  I  sor  'im  turn  awye 
like  this  'ere"  (Graney  buried  his  face  clumsily  in  his 
hands)  "as  though  he  couldn't  bear  the  sight.  But 
that  devil  Winterhurst  smiled  and  went  on  puffing  his 
long  cigar,  looking  on  as  though  it  were  a  bloomin' 
circus — ^and  Goring  below  raging  through  the  press 
like  a  mad  bull,  for  by  that  time  ^e'd  got  off  the  balcony 
— ^he  thort  they  weren't  a-doin'  of  'em  in  fast  enough. 

"This  has  fair  put  the  kybosh  on  Direct  Action. 
Syndicalism — phaugh!"  Graney  snapped  his  fingers. 
They  cracked  hardly  under  the  cold  lights.  "Direct 
Action!  The  barricade!  Arter  wot  'appened  be'ind 
the  barricade  at  the  top  of  Regent  Street,  you  won't 


THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  BUBBLE     317 

'ear  much  tork  abaht  barricades — ^not  from  yours  truly, 
any'ah. 

"They  hedged  the  mob  into  Hoxford  Circus,  and 
then  I  tell  you  the  Maxims  got  to  work  in  a  flaming 
circle.  Then  they  played  on  'em — they  played  on  'em. 
The  men  cursed  and  some  of  'em  'eld  up  their  'ands, 
but  they  went  dahn  all  the  same  in  swathes  like  the 
Fuzzy- Wuzzies  at  Omdurman — I  was  aht  there  under 
Kitchener,  you  know.  .  .  .  Direct  Action !"  Graney 
spat  over  the  parapet. 

The  sounds  of  distant  firing  came  to  them  like  the 
crackle  of  summer  lightning. 

"I  reckon  that's  the  platoon  work,"  said  Graney, 
facing  towards  the  sound.  "They're  putting  'em  up 
against  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  Nelson  Column.. 

"There  it  goes  again."  Once  more  the  spatter  came 
to  their  ears  like  the  breaking  of  surf  upon  some  distant 
beach. 

"Graney — I'm  going  down,"  said  Destin,  picking 
himself  up  from  the  boarding  and  going  to  the  edge 
where  the  top  of  the  ladder  showed  itself. 

The  docker  looked  at  him  hard  a  moment,  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak,  and  then  shut  it  again. 

"You're  mad — but  if  you  go — I  go,"  said  the  little 
man. 

They  passed  silently  down  the  reaches  of  the  ladder- 
way  until  they  came  to  the  last  stage  where  the  ladder 
had  been  swept  away. 

"Better  slide  the  pole,"  said  he.  Gently  they  let 
themselves  over  the  edge  and  slid  to  the  ground. 

"Who  goes  there!" 


318  DEMOCRACY 

A  figure  had  stepped  forward  and  something  was 
glimmering  under  the  arc-lights. 

"Run  for  Christ's  sake!" 

Graney  had  scuttled  off  down  the  street,  Destin 
sprinting  by  his  side.  There  was  a  rush  of  footsteps 
and  a  report.  A  bullet  sang  past.  Then  another  and 
another.  But  they  had  darted  down  St.  Swithin's 
Lane  into  Cannon  Street. 

"Direct  action!"  said  Graney. 

He  spat  again  on  the  pavement. 


XXV 

DEMOS 

They  passed  by  devious  ways  to  Graney*s  lodgings  in 
a  street  in  the  Mile  End  Road  district,  listening  as  they 
went  for  sounds  of  firing  from  Tower  Hill ;  but  it  was 
silent  over  there. 

"Waiting  for  reinforcements  I  reckon/'  said  Graney. 
"They'll  wait  till  they've  finished  the  West  and  come 
East  to-night.  Make  a  clean  job  on  it  I  reckon, 
Winterhurst's  way." 

As  they  mounted  the  rickety  stairs,  Graney  muttered 
— "Wot  the  'oly  Moses  'ave  we  'ere?" 

He  struck  a  match.  Before  him,  crouching  on  the 
stairs,  was  a  little  boy,  whom  Destin  recognised  as  the 
boy  he  had  seen  in  the  morning  strutting  before  the 
Invincibles. 

"Nah  then,  young  shaver,  wot  do  you  want?" 

"Are  you  Mr.  Graney?"  the  boy  asked. 

"I  am  that  gent,"  said  Graney  solemnly. 

"Then  I  was  to  give  yer  this — that's  all."  He 
fumbled  in  his  open  shirt  and  drew  out  a  piece  of 
paper. 

Graney  unlocked  the  door  of  his  room  and  walked 
in.  They  heard  him  strike  a  match.  The  room,  a 
little    East    London    lodging   with    a    bookshelf    in 

319 


320  DEMOCRACY 

the  corner,  showed  itself  bare  to  the  eye.  The  light 
from  the  gas  lamp  outside  came  in  wanly  through  the 
window. 

He  read  the  paper,  which  he  handed  to  Destin. 

He  knew  the  writing,  the  heavy,  even  writing  of  the 
Green-eyed  Girl: 

"If  this  reaches  you,  will  you  please  find  Mr.  Destin 
and  bring  him  at  once  to  the  place  which  the  bearer  will 
show  you.    Come  now." 

"Were  is  it  sonny?"  asked  Graney. 

"A  couple  of  streets  away,"  said  the  boy,  "in  Love 
Lane." 

"Gor  lummy !  wot  next,"  said  Graney.  "Love  Lane. 
That's  a  nice  place  to  bring  up." 

They  followed  the  boy  down  the  stairs  and  made  two 
or  three  turnings,  coming  out  of  a  greasy  alley-way 
into  a  London  rookery.  A  crowd  of  men  and  women 
had  collected  in  the  place,  some  of  them  looking 
upwards  at  the  dilapidated  fa9ade  of  the  house 
where  the  boy  had  led  them,  mouthing  threats  and 
curses. 

The  child  took  them  up  several  flights  of  stairs,  and 
saying  "  *Ere  y'are,"  vanished. 

"Red  Fitz*s,"  said  Graney. 

Destin  knocked.  He  pushed  open  the  door  and 
found  himself  in  a  little  whitewashed  room,  lighted  by 
a  single  candle,  that  glimmered  from  its  sticky  bed  on 
the  window  ledge,  showing  some  flesh-coloured  pic- 
tures of  boxers  on  the  walls. 

Lying  on  a  meagre  sofa  before  the  window,  covered 
by  a  shawl,  was  a  girl. 


DEMOS  321 

He  went  over,  Graney  following  him,  curious. 

"Is  that  you?"  said  the  deep  voice  he  knew  so 
well. 

"Yes,"  said  Destin.     "IVe  come." 

The  girl  half  raised  herself  and  looked  at  him  so 
strangely  that 'he  dropped  his  eyes.  She  seemed  to  be 
asking  him  some  question. 

"He  is  there."    She  pointed  through  the  wall. 
Destin  knew  whom  she  meant. 

"He  carried  me  out  of  the  press  and  then  went  down 
— collapsed,  but  Red  Fitz  and  another  had  followed  us 
and  brought  us  here." 

"Are  you  hurt?"  asked  Destin  remembering.  It 
seemed  as  though  these  things  were  unreal.  He  was 
constantly  waking  into  something  he  had  forgotten. 

"They  shot  me  through  the  calf."  She  looked  at 
him  and  smiled.  "Not  very  romantic,  is  it?  It  brought 
me  down,  but  it  is  merely  a  flesh  wound.  It  is  bound 
up  and  a  little  painful.    But  Creegan  has  it." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"He  got  it  through  the  chest.  It  seems  a  piece  of 
bone  is  pressing  on  the  lung.  He  must  be  operated  on 
if  we  are  to  save  his  life,  but  the  only  doctor  I  could 
trust  in  London — my  friend  Doctor  OTlaherty,  who 
has  seen  him — says  he  must  not  stay  here.  He  cannot 
operate  in  this  place.   .   .   .    Listen  to  that." 

The  growl  in  the  courtyard  came  up  to  their  ears — 
with  now  a  harsher  note  in  it. 

"You  know  some  of  the  people  down  there  have 
been  in  the  fighting  and  a  couple  of  men  have  been 
killed.    Somehow  or  other  the  rumour  has  got  about 


Z22  DEMOCRACY 

that  Creegan  is  here  and  they're  talking  of  making  him 
pay  for  it  all.  I  am  afraid  for  him."  The  girl's  eyes 
were  wide  and  distressed  as  she  went  on: 

"The  doctor  says  he  will  take  him  into  his  own 
house  on  the  other  side  of  Tower  Hill  and  chance  the 
authorities,  as  he  has  often  chanced  them  before.  He 
is  an  old  Fenian  you  know.  So  I  sent  for  you  to 
help  me. 

"He"  (she  nodded  towards  the  next  room)  "has 
been  delirious  all  the  day  off  and  on,  and  has  made  his 
last  confession  to  a  priest. 

"Fitz  says  he  thinks  he  can  get  a  lorry  to  take  him 
away,  but  it  cannot  come  nearer  than  the  piece  of 
waste  ground  at  the  end  of  the  Lane.  We  must  carry 
him  there  in  some  way  before  the  break  of  day.  The 
lorry  will  be  waiting." 

A  knock  came  to  the  door,  which  was  filled  by  Fitz. 

"  'E's  a-goin'  off  his  rocker,  miss,  but  'e's  come  to, 
now,  and  he  wants  to  speak  to  yen  He's  like  a 
bloomin'  byby.  Won't  be  satisfied  but  he  must  see 
you." 

The  girl  looked  at  Destin.  "I  must  go  to  him.  I 
must  go  to  Brian." 

Of  course  the  woman  must  go  to  her  lover — to  the 
man  who  had  saved  her.  That  was  natural.  But  he 
felt  chilled. 

As  the  girl  rose  stiffly  from  her  couch,  resting  her 
body  on  the  crook  of  his  arm,  he  caught  the  fragrance 
of  her  hair.  It  seemed  like  an  old -memory — a  memory 
of  something  he  had  known  in  the  long  past,  but  it  left 
a  dull  pain  behind  it. 


DEMOS  323 

She  limped  to  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  dirty 
passage,  pushing  open  the  door  of  the  next  room. 

The  man  was  lying  in  a  sort  of  long  black  box — so 
like  a  coffin  that  for  the  moment  she  stopped.  It  was 
Red  Fitz's  bed,  knocked  together  from  the  boards  of 
soap-boxes  and  painted  black. 

The  May  moon  was  the  only  light  there,  flooding  the 
room  and  lighting  the  face  of  Creegan  into  a  glistening 
pallor. 

He  made  an  unavailing  gesture  to  the  little  upturned 
butter-box  near  the  bed.    She  sat  down. 

"YouVe  come." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  the  ivory  of  her  face  showing  clear 
in  the  moon  rays,  "I've  come.  What  can  I  do  for  you 
Brian?  You  must  be  good  now  and  come  with  us — 
for  a  little  operation  that  will  cure  you." 

"Listen,"  said  the  man  on  the  bed.  "Fm.  dyin*  of 
something  that  the  doctor  can't  cure — I'm  dyin'  of 
what  the  people  call  a  broken,  heart.  I  usen't  to  believe 
in  that  sort  of  thing — I  thought  it  was  a  way  of 
speakin*.  Now  I  know  different.  I  know  so  many 
things  different,"  He  turned  wearily,  his  eyes  large 
and  bright. 

"Now  don't  be  thinkin'  I'm  raving — for  I  have  me 
senses  all  right — I  am  not  dark.  But  all  the  same,  I 
didn't  think  to  die  like  a  rat  in  a  hole." 

"You  shan't  die  Brian,"  she  said,  taking  the  hand 
that  lay,  listless,  over  the  rough  edge  of  the  box. 

"Hush  alannah !"  He  spoke  as  he  might  to  a  child. 
"My  time  has  come.  There  isn't  a  Creegan  that  didn't 
know  it.    Ye  ought  to  know  as  an  Irishwoman  that  we 


324  DEMOCRACY 

have  'the  sight/  Me  time  has  come,  but  I  don't  want 
to  pass  over  before  I  say  something.  .  .  . 

"Ye  know  long  ago  when.  I  was  a  little  gossoon  in 
Ireland  I  used  to  have  me  dreams  of  a  time  when 
everything  would  be  beautiful  on  earth.  I  saw  the 
'good  people'  everywhere— on  the  moonlight  nights 
they  used  to  come  to  me  in  through  the  window  of  the 
old  tenement  house.  I  saw  them  things  like  a 
child.  .  .  . 

"When.  I  grew  to  a  man — I  saw  the  Vision — ^but  it 
was  a  man's  vision.  The  Voices  used  to  come  to  me 
in  the  night,  and  sometimes  the  Things.  ...  I  tell  ye 
I  have  seen  them  many  a  time  plainer  than  I  see  your 
face  there  foreninst  me.  And  they  told  me  of  the 
things  to  come — ^yes,  and  sometimes  they  told  me  of 
this  .  .  .  but  I  wouldn't  listen  to  them.  I  heard  them 
that  day  in  the  Strand  when  I  left  the  meeting  which 
decided  the  Strike.  Denis  Destin  was  with  me  that 
day — Denis  .  .  .  him  that  once  I  loved  better  than  all 
things  but  one. 

"And  they  showed  me  the  time  when  all  men  and 
women  should  be  free — when  the  angels  of  God  would 
walk  the  earth  and  not  stay  up  in  heaven — when  the 
golden  kingdom  would  come  down  to  men.  They 
showed  me  the  time  when  the  common  people — the 
poor  people,  of  the  world  would  rise — when  the  graves 
of  the  past  should  give  up  their  dead  to  cast  off  their 
shrouds  and  stand  upright  in  the  sun  of  the  morning, 
fearless  before  the  new  day  and  the  new  age.  But 
they  didn't  show  me  the  way. 

"But  I  saw  the  way.     I  saw  the  red  flag  and  the 


DEMOS  325 

barricade  and  the  rifle.  I  saw  that  force  must  be  met 
by  force — ^that  the  people  must  rule  those  others  who 
would  hold  them  chained.  .  .  .  And  I  saw  that  other 
vision — the  streets  running  with  blood — the  blood  of 
the  martyrs — with  the  blood  of  their  enemies — ^and  out 
of  the  fusion  a  new  world  rising  fairer  than  the  old. 

"And  then  you  came.  .  .  ."  The  man's  voice  had 
sunk  very  low.  "Then  you  came,  and  the  spirit  had 
taken  flesh,  and  the  first  of  the  Vision  fulfilled  was 
shown  to  me. 

"I  tell  ye  now — it  is  my  last  confession  that  I  am 
makin*  to  you — that  I  loved  ye  from  the  moment  I  saw 
ye  walk  into  the  Transport  Workers.  And  to  me  you 
were  my  mother  and  sweetheart  and  friend.  And  even 
once,  had  you  asked,  I  would  have  given  you  the  moon 
and  stars — ^have  plucked  down  the  planets  from  their 
courses  to  light  you  to  glory  and  honour.  . . .  But  that 
is  over  now. 

"And  sometimes  I  thought — sometimes — one  time — 
that  maybe  you  would  look  on  me,  Brian  Creegan,  and 
that  together  we  would  lead  the  hosts  of  the  people 
through  the  gates  of  the  New  Jerusalem — into  the  city 
of  light — ^that  you  would — God  forgive  me — ^be  the 
queen  of  heaven  on  earth,  as  Mary  is  of  the  heaven 
above. 

"But  you  would  not  .  .  .  and  you  will  forgive  me 
that." 

The  girl  was  bending  very  close  to  him.  The  voice 
had  taken  a  higher,  a  feverish,  note.  The  eyes  had 
brightened. 

"But  that  is  all  finished  now  .  .  .  that  is  all  finished. 


326  DEMOCRACY 

When  I  was  a  little  boy  playing  'The  Bould  Sea  Rover' 
and  1  am  the  King  of  the  Castle'  and  the  other  ould 
games — God  be  with  the  times ! — and  me  mother  would 
say — 'Brian,  why  is  h  alannah  that  your  pinny  is 
dirty?*  or  may  be  .  .  .  yes,  but  your  dress  isn't  dirty 
alannah  .  .  .  what  is  it  I  am  sayin'?  What  is  it?  .  .  . 
Listen.    I  hear  the  Voices  again.  .  .  .** 

The  man  tried  to  sit  up,  but  fell  back.  The  girl  put 
out  her  hand  to  wipe  away  the  sweat  that  had  gathered 
on  his  face,  on  which  two  great  tears  fell  as  she  bent 
over  him. 

He  had  lifted  himself  again  and  was  staring  through 
the  window  at  the  white  moon. 

"The  Voices!  .  The  Voices!  .  .  .  Yes  boys — over 
the  barricade!  Yes,  give  it  to  them!  Now  all  to- 
gether ! .  .  .  God  strike  you !  What  is  it  you  are  doin* 
there,  Patsy!  Now  boys,  together !  .  .  ."  Again  he 
fell  back. 

The  girl  ran  into  the  passage.  "Get  him  out  of  the 
place  quick.    It's  time.    The  day  has  broken." 

"How  will  we  lift  him  ?  How  can  we  get  him  away 
from  here  with  those  bloodhounds  downstairs  and  the 
police  watching  for  him?" 

She  looked  despairingly  around  the  room.  Her  eye 
fell  on  the  box. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "I  have  it.  The  bed  he's  in  is 
like  a  coffin.  We'll  cover  it  with  something  and  take  it 
down  the  stairs.  If  we  are  stopped,  we  can  say  that 
he's  dead — that  his  corpse  is  in  it." 

"But  suppose  the  police  stop  us?"  asked  Destin. 

"Not  much  fear  of  the  cops,"  said  Graney.  "They've 


DEMOS  327 

taken  nearly  every  cop  in  London  for  the  work  dahn 
there."  He  pointed  out  through  the  window.  "If  we 
can  get  through  that  little  lot  in  the  court,  we're  pretty 
safe." 

"We  have  to  chance  something  if  we're  to  save 
Creegan's  life,"  added  the  girl.  "Where  can  we  get 
something  black  like  a  pall  ?  A  shawl  would  do — ^any- 
thing." 

Fitz  ran  out  of  the  room,  returning  with  the  big 
black  shawl  which  had  covered  her  on  the  sofa.  She 
took  the  shawl  and  laid  it  over  the  now  unconscious 
man  who  lay  there  stiffly. 

"Now,"  said  Destin  shortly. 

They  lifted  up  the  box  and  carried  it  to  the  door, 
Fitz  at  the  feet  and  Graney  and  Destin  at  the  head, 
lifting  it  with  ropes  they  had  run  underneath. 

It  was  heavy.  They  struck  every  angle  of  the  stairs, 
in  one  place  carrying  away  a  yard  of  the  crazy 
bannisters. 

As  they  came  out,  they  saw  the  crowd  of  people  in 
the  court  had  increased. 

"He's  dead,"  said  Destin.    "Make  way  there." 

The  crowd  parted  sullenly.  But  one  woman,  her 
hair  streeling  down  her  face,  stuck  a  red  arm  on  her 
hip  and  said — "Blarst  'im !  serve  *im  right !  It's  he  that 
'as  sent  my  Jim  to  'is  death  this  day  afore  the  sojers." 

"Stand  back !"  said  Fitz,  "and  if  one  of  you  follow, 
strike  me  white  if  I  don't  paralyse  'im — or  'er"  he 
added  significantly.  "Do  we  want  every  bloody  peeler 
in  the  place  after  us?" 

They  marched  on  with  their  burden,  the  girl  limping 


328  DEMOCRACY 

by  the  head  of  the  box,  keeping  the  cloth  raised  so  that 
the  man  might  breathe.  Nobody  followed  them 
now. 

As  they  came  out  on  the  piece  of  deserted  ground, 
they  saw  the  lorry  standing  there,  the  driver  waiting 
by  the  horses*  heads. 

They  slid  the  box  on  to  the  straw  in  the  bottom  and 
climbed  in. 

"We  carn't  go  the  strite  wye  along  the  Aldgate  High 
Street  and  dahn  the  Minories — weVe  got  to  go  through 
to  Fenchurch  Street  and  cut  acrorst,"  said  Graney. 
"They've  got  the  sojers  firing  from  the  Tower,  Fitz 
says — ^not  many,  for  the  authorities  never  thort  of 
strengthening  the  guard  till  it  was  too  late  to  get  in 
more  men.  But  we're  not  takin*  chawnces.  Better 
keep  away  from  the  mob  too  as  much  as  we  can — ^we 
must  go  rahnd  by  Bleak  Street." 

Slowly  they  rumbled  along  the  Mile  End  Road  and 
Whitechapel  Road,  each  moment  fearing  to  be  stopped, 
but  the  streets  were  deserted.  They  had  just  passed 
Leman  Street,  when  an  undersized  man,  a  kind  of 
stained  dishclout  about  his  head,  scuttled  past  like  a 
frightened  rabbit,  his  head  and  ears  back,  shouting — 
"The  sojers!  the  sojers!"  Vainly  Graney  asked  him 
what  he  meant,  but  he  ran  on  shouting  mechanically — 
"The  sojers!  the  sojers!" 

The  tramp  of  men  came  to  them.  "Turn!"  cried 
Graney,  wrenching  the  horses  round.  "Dahn  Whelk 
Lane — it's  our  only  chance." 

The  horses  were  sent  at  the  hand-gallop  back  along 
the  main  road  and  down  the  next  lane.    They  had  gone 


DEMOS  J29 

half  its  length,  when  a  man  who  was  passing  cried — 
"Go  back  Fitz — they're  working  round  the  back  down 
there  to  get  behind  the  men  on  the  Hill." 

"We've  only  one  way  out,"  said  Graney.  "We  must 
go  strite  for  the  'ill  and  fice  the  music  there.  We  may 
get  through  yet." 

They  reached  the  approach  to  Tower  Hill  without 
hindrance,  but  across  the  face  of  the  sun,  now  rising 
crimson  and  angry  over  the  roof-tops,  there  came  the 
sound  of  firing,  which  rapidly  became  a  fusillade,  in- 
cessant and  furious. 

As  they  drew  nearer,  there  was  a  buzzing  in  the  air, 
and  past  them,  flying  singly,  came  ragged,  pasty-faced 
men,  some  with  their  heads  and  arms  bound  up — one 
of  them  scuttering  along  silently,  his  hand  over  his 
face,  the  blood  trickling  between  his  outstretched 
fingers  as  he  ran. 

"More  direct  action,"  said  Graney,  twisting  his 
mouth  into  a  smile. 

The  man  in  the  box  began  to  stir  uneasily  as  the 
shots  came  to  his  ears.  "Turn  back,"  Destin  called  to 
the  driver.    "Get  out  of  this." 

It  was  too  late.  The  crowd  streamed  past  them  ever 
more  thickly.    Now  there  were  women  in  it. 

They  fought  their  way  to  the  opening  on  to  the  Hill, 
where  soijie  men  and  women  were  beginning  to  throw 
up  a  barricade  across  the  street  to  meet  the  soldiers 
coming  round  behind.  But  as  fast  as  they  reared  it, 
they  and  it  were  swept  away  by  the  rush  of  the  crowd, 
which  packed  the  clearing  of  the  Hill. 

The  houses  lining  the  approaches  on  the  other  side, 


330  DEMOCRACY 

held  by  the  mob,  were  vomiting  flame  from  behind 
their  boarded  windows,  whilst  they  could  see  the  men 
lying  behind  the  barricades  which  had  been  erected 
across  the  streets,  loading  and  firing  irregularly  at  the 
invisible  enemy.  Men  were  even  firing  from  the  roof 
parapets,  and  they  could  see  the  flakes  of  mortar  drop- 
ping silently  under  the  impact  of  the  bullets  from 
underneath. 

The  streaming  movement  had  checked.  Now  they 
were  jammed  in  the  mass  which,  for  some  reason,  was 
beginning  to  press  back  on  them.  Destin  stood  up  to 
look  for  the  cause,  when  "The  sojers !  the  sojers !"  was 
shouted  from  behind.  "We're  trapped!  Trapped!" 
The  cry  ran  along  and  surged  about  them. 

"Trapped !    Trapped !" 

From  where  he  stood  in  the  lorry,  he  could  see  the 
faces  about  him,  pale  with  anger  and  terror — the  eyes 
turning  this  way  and  that — seeking  escape.  A  whisper- 
ing came  to  them,  which  quickly  rose  to  a  scream. 

The  man  in  the  box  began  to  call  out  and  struggled 
upwards,  Destin  and  Graney  trying  to  hold  him  down. 
But  he  fought  the  cloth  away.  "Christ !  take  it  away — 
do  you  want  to  smother  me?  Holy  Virgin!  take  it 
away,"  he  screamed.  The  girl  soothed  him  for  a 
moment. 

"There's  Creegan's  donah!"  a  man  cried,  pointing  to 
the  girl.  There's  the  bloody  woman  whose  man  drove 
us  on  to  the  sojers'  bayonets.  W'ere's  Creegan?"  he 
screamed.     "Creegan !" 

"Creegan !    Creegan !    Creegan !"  was  taken  up. 

"There's  Destin!    Where's  Creegan?    Where's  the 


DEMOS  331 

bloody  traitor  that  led  us  into  this?  Creegan! 
Creegan !" 

The  crowd  halted  at  the  cry,  being  blocked  in  the 
place  with  the  lorry. 

"Who  calls  me?"  shouted  Creegan. 

In  vain  did  Destin  and  Graney,  with  Fitz,  try  to 
hold  him  down  on  his  bed.  He  sat  up  like  a  dead  man 
resurrecting  himself,  the  shawl  hanging  about  him 
shroud-like. 

"Here  I  am  boys.  The  Invincibles  for  ever!"  he 
cried  and  collapsed. 

But  the  crowd  had  caught  sight  of  iiim. 

"There's  the  whoreson  who  led  us  on  to  this.  Be 
Christ !  he  ought  to  be  crucified !" 

The  cry  came  from  a  red  fury  of  a  woman,  her  bod- 
ice half  torn  from  her  shoulders,  showing  the  yellow 
of  her  bosom. 

"Crucify  him !    Crucify  him !"  screamed  the  crowd. 

The  word  ran  along  the  packed  masses  in  the  street, 
who  shouted,  without  knowing  why. 

"Crucify  him!    Crucify  him!" 

The  rush  had  come.  Destin  and  the  girl  went  down 
under  the  first  onslaught.  Graney  and  Red  Fitz  with 
the  driver  were  swept  over  and  into  the  crowd.  The 
black  box  was  dragged  out  and  carried  shoulder-high 
towards  the  stone  plinth  on  the  hill,  leaving  the  man 
and  the  girl  together. 

In  a  moment  two  black  shutters  had  appeared,  with 
hammers  and  nails,  taken  from  the  barricades.  The 
sound  of  hammering  was  heard,  and,  pinioned  there, 
Destin  and  the  girl  saw  what  was  to  come. 


332  DEMOCRACY 

The  shutters,  in  the  form  of  a  Maltese  cross,  were 
laid  down  on  the  stones  and  the  man,  now  quiet,  was 
taken  out  of  his  shell  and  placed  on  the  cross.  They 
heard  the  crushing,  beating  sound,  and  the  cross  was 
upreared  on  the  plinth  in  the  crimsoning  sun. 

The  great  gaunt  figure  hung  there,  the  hands  nailed, 
the  feet  lashed. 

The  grey  head  hung  over — ^the  eyes  looked  down- 
wards on  the  upturned  faces. 

Once  the  great  chest  lifted  itself  away  from  the 
cross,  the  head  turning  upwards.  Then  again.  .  .  . 
Once  more  the  head  had  risen  and  then  had  fallen  into 
the  shadows  of  death. 

Destin,  his  arms  about  the  girl,  stood  there,  his  eyes 
on  the  plinth.    The  girl  had  clung  to  his  neck. 
"Denis,  Denis,"  she  said.   .    .    . 


°Ay    AND    TO    »..00    ON    T„%    ^^L"""""™ 
OVERDUE.  ^"^    SEVENTH    DAY 


LOAN  DePT 


I  Lj    ousou 


988^69 


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